


They say he can't be killed

by Betty06



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (Political Marriages), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because prepping for winter that's why, Everyone slightly OOC, F/M, Idk who else - Freeform, Jon Snow is Azor Ahai, POV Multiple, Queen Shireen Baratheon, Robb Stark Lives, Robb Stark is King in the North, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, The Long Night, The original character is this dude called Steffon Sunderland, Warg Starks (ASoIaF), Wildling Rickon Stark, Ygritte Lives (ASoIaF), fAegon - Freeform, more couples too Idk, wtf am i doing with my life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 29
Words: 30,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28816569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Betty06/pseuds/Betty06
Summary: They say the king in the north can't be killed. They are right.Robb Stark survives the Red Wedding and after the Purple Wedding the Tyrells are spurned by Queen Regent Cersei Lannister. At the wall, the Starks, Baratheons, and Tyrells make a dangerous alliance and seal the deal with two marriages.Up North, the dead are rising, but before the seven kingdoms can fight them, they have to be united first. And across the narrow sea, two dragons prepare their armies for war.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jon Snow/Ygritte, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Myrcella Baratheon/Trystane Martell, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Sansa Stark/Original Male Character(s), Shireen Baratheon/Rickon Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Jeyne Poole
Comments: 57
Kudos: 203





	1. Robb I

**Author's Note:**

> Basically: Robb lives, but Catelyn dies, Stannis suffers a defeat and decides the only option is to ally himself wth the king in the north. Political marriages are made and plans to retake their kingdoms, etc. Arya comes back from Braavos, Sansa escapes to the Vale, Tyrion makes it to Daenerys, Cersei fights Aegon, and a few people die. Yay.
> 
> I fucked with the timeline, the geography and the characters ages, in particular Tommen, Myrcella, Rickon and Shireen.  
> This will retell the story from a sos onward over ffc and dwd eventually over to winds of winter. I'm doing my best...  
> The story will be divided in four parts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PART I: When the snows fall
> 
> ____________

They had always said it. He couldn’t be killed, that was what they’d said. It seemed they had been right. He’d taken three arrows and Roose Bolton’s sword through his back, but he’d pulled it out and drove it into Walder Frey’s neck. But it had been too late. His mother lay dead, her throat cut clean, a red smile dripping down her body. He had run then, he must have. Grey Wind had been a beast, tearing down men left and right, peppered full of the same arrows that had struck Robb himself. The king who lost the North. Outside the night was ablaze with fire, banners and tents burning, men fighting for their lives. He had still been standing, fighting. He had called them to him, the armies of the north. And they had come. And they had escaped. Somehow. A handful of loyal men and hundreds of soldiers and the great beast. Grey Wind. He had been bloodied so, but he must have fled and he must have succeeded. He did not remember when exactly he’d passed out, but he had, arrows still in his arms, blood pouring from his chest. They had always said it, didn’t they… He had no time for grief, no time for tears. He was alone now. He had been betrayed by the men he had trusted. 

Carefully he sat up. He felt no pain, only rage. Betrayed, by his own men.

“Robb?” 

He looked up to see Dacey Mormont. 

“You’re alive.” He stated. 

She laughed at that, a bitter laugh. “I’m alive, yes, but that was luck. You were stabbed and shot and… Robb, you should be dead.”

“But I’m not. How long was I asleep?”

“Barely a day. But much happens in a day. They have not yet found us, Your Grace, but we have to leave as soon as you’re better.”

“I’m well.” He lied and stood up. “Jeyne…”

“She was… she had been with child, so they…”

He braced himself and took a deep breath. “I haven’t known you to shy away from violence. Tell me what they did, Dacey. I can handle anything right now.”

“They cut the child out of her and paraded both of them around the Twins. It has been send to King’s Landing along with the queen’s head.”

He fell back onto the bed. The room seemed to spin around him. Blood was all he could taste. He remembered Jeyne’s warm eyes and soft touch, her sweet voice and her smile when she’d seen him off, sure he’d be back in her bed in a Sennight. Dead, her corpse defiled, her head on a spike next to his father's. 

“Where are we?” he managed. 

“In the Riverlands still, Your Grace. We might make it to the Sisters, or travel through the Vale.”

Robb thought on that for a moment. “Stannis is at the Wall. So is Jon, my heir. We will make for the Sisters and we will get ships, and then we will go north. Now help me outside.”

Outside he looked over his men again. Hundreds of men and women. He winced to see their wounds, to see their numbers so diminished. Robb could barely stand, why he could not say. 

“Loyal men and women of the North, the Riverlands and wherever you’ve come from.” He began, hiding his weakness as best as he could. “We have been betrayed, I have been betrayed, by men I thought were as loyal to me and as true to their word as you are. I thought wrong. The massacre they call the red wedding has cost each and every one of us people we cared for. Their deaths will not go unpunished! Now, we must flee to save ourselves, but only for the sake of preservation!” A cheer went up. “Once we have regained our strength we will be back and we will seek vengeance for our losses. The North remembers, but winter is not yet upon us. We survive to fight another day, and until then we will seek safety at the Wall! My brother,” he began. Why not? He thought. Catelyn is dead anyway, and he is the only brother I still have. “Jon Snow, resides there, and will grant us time to rebuild our strength. Now we flee for our lives, but soon it will be Lannisters, Freys, and Boltons running from us!”

And so, they fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. This chapter is basically just an introduction to the idea, so let me know what you think (if you have any thoughts) :D


	2. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa attends a meeting of the Lannisters and faces their reactions to the failure of the red wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's story won't be very different from the books in the beginning, but I want to capture the entire story, so Sansa gets some chapters too.

Joffrey was sadistic, cruel, and in a murderous rage. Sansa had gotten to the point where she barely minded it anymore, as long as it wasn’t directly aimed at her. After all, he was her nephew by her marriage to Tyrion and he was usually unable to let out his anger at her. And it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, or so she thought, as Joffrey was always sadistic and cruel, and usually angry at people and then he would shout “I am the KING!” and have someone’s hands cut off. Today though, it was different. Tyrion had warned her that horrible news would soon reach her.

“Of what?” she had asked.

“Your mother and your brother might not live to see winter come after all.” Tyrion had answered and left her to drown whatever sorrows he harboured in cups and cups of the strongest wine he could find.

And so, when she was summoned to the Small Council Chamber, she prepared herself for grave news. Sansa had no delusions anymore, no thoughts of rescue and miracles, only weak faith in a fool and hope for a quick end. 

When she reached the chamber however, everyone was already there. Cersei was pacing up and down, fuming with rage, Tywin Lannister was seated at the table with a grim look on his face. Her dwarf husband was sitting with a pained expression and Joffrey was in no better spirits than his mother. But this was no Small Council meeting, but a Lannister one, and something had gone gravely wrong. Sansa wanted to laugh when she saw their fury.

She curtsied as gracefully as she could. “Your Grace sent for me.”

“Sit, traitor.” Cersei hissed at her and carefully Sansa did as she was bid.

“Your brother has once again refused to die.” Tyrion stated and avoided her gaze.

“I- I do not understand, my Lord. As far as I had been informed Robb was currently attending the wedding of his uncle, Edmure Tully.”

“To Roslin Frey, yes. After he married the Westerling whore!” The queen shouted, pacing up and down the council room.

“Look what I have for you, Lady Sansa!” Joffrey shouted, kicking away his chair and standing. He pulled away the lid from the box and shoved it over the table towards her.

“Joffrey.” The irritated sound of Tywin’s voice was the only warning she got.

Sansa peered over the side into the box and let out a scream. There was a horrible bloody thing in there. It looked like… no!

“That’s you’re nephew there, Sansa! Is that any way to greet a family member?”

“No! Please, no! It can't be, it- no! Please, what is this? What happened, please…” she sobbed and covered her mouth with her hand, unable to look away.

“The Freys and Boltons did as they were told. They turned their cloak to the right side. Our side.” Tywin Lannister said with a thin smile.

“Your bitch mother is dead, Sansa! And you’re brother too, most like! A traitor’s end for a savage!” Joffrey shouted with glee.

“They had one job, just one! Kill the boy and skin his wolf, kill him, and deliver his head! And what did we get? Some Westerling girl’s head, and no trace of the pretender!” Cersei raved on and on, but Sansa barely heard it. 

Through her tears, a hysterical laugh escaped Sansa.

“You must excuse me! I must… celebrate this Lannister victory over the… the Northern pretenders!” she cried out, laughing maniacally and without waiting their reactions she fled the chamber. 

She barely made it to the chambers she shared with her Lannister husband. As soon as she was through the door Sansa broke down crying. Her mother was dead. Joffrey had once promised her her brother’s head, but instead she’d received a child fresh from the womb. Her mother was dead. Catelyn Stark, who had always been so sure was dead and gone. Robb was most likely wounded. Dead. She thought. He’s as good as dead. Bran and Rickon were dead, Arya gone, most likely dead, Robb gone, most likely dead, her father’s head cut off, dead, dead, they were all dead. She remembered the way Eddard Stark’s head had fallen from his shoulders with a gush of blood, but now in her memory it was suddenly not Ned there but Catelyn.

The door opened again, and Tyrion Lannister waddled in. 

“Lady Sansa?” 

She laughed at that. “Yes?” her voice wasn’t weak, to her surprise, but as hysterical as her laughter.

“I wanted to offer my condolences. I am truly sorry for your loss.” He said, surprisingly soft.

“They were traitors. Traitors, every one of them. They deserved to die.” She recited.

“Your brother may not be dead. He was wounded, but lead part of his army away. He escaped, Sansa.”

For a moment her heart stopped. Then she remembered herself. “That isn’t good news, is it?”

“For me as a Lannister I am furious. But as your friend I am truly happy for you. You may yet reunite with your brother.”

“Don’t give me hope. And besides, he’s a traitor.”

“You’re getting better at lying, Sansa Stark.” He smiled.

“Sansa Lannister. That’s my name.” Sansa said as convincingly as she could.

But in her heart the name sounded wrong. In her heart, hope grew again. Dangerously, but there it was.

____________

Joffrey’s wedding was to be in a moon's turn. Sansa tried desperately to avoid the king, but it was hard. When news came that Robb had been sighted, Joffrey had Ser Meryn beat her where Tyrion could not see, and she had to try to hide the bruises on her face. She wished Joffrey dead so very much in those moments. Tommen would make a better king. Not a good one, but better than Joffrey by a landslide. She spoke to her “nephew” and tried to be nice to the boy, but when he forced himself to call her his aunt, she could think only of the box with the blood and the flesh and the babe, and thought of Robb and the massacre that killed her mother, the red wedding.

It was one of the horrible days after the Small Council chamber, that Dontos the Fool came to her once again. He gave her a hairnet. A beautiful hairnet, it was, one of the prettiest things she’d owned in a while. 

“What for, my Florian?”

“The escape, Jonquil, the escape! It is what will save you! Wear it to Joffrey’s wedding and I will save you after the feast, my dear!” 

It seemed too good to be true. Escape, finally, a set date, right in front of her. Yet when she looked at the hair net it seemed… wrong. Dontos left as swiftly as he’d came and Sansa swiftly left their secret meeting spot. In her haste she almost bumped into the other people walking there.

“Lady Sansa!” Margaery beamed at her.

“…Aunt Sansa.” Tommen forced himself again.

“You make me sound like an old woman, my prince.” She teased with a smile, though her heart ached at it.

Margaery looked at her with concern, and Sansa realized how she must look. Reddened eyes and a pale face, frail in her shell.

“Tommen? Would you mind giving me a moment with Lady Sansa?”

Tommen nodded eagerly and ran off. He was a boy of ten, small and giddy.

“Yes, my Lady?” Sansa asked the older girl.

“You look unwell. Is something amiss?”

Sansa stared at her for a moment.

“I know it is wrong to grieve for a traitor, yet I feel certain sadness over the loss of my mother, Lady Catelyn, who was justly put to death at the red wedding, they call it.”

Margaery’s eyes widened. “You must forgive me. My head is elsewhere, it would seem, I am so nervous for my wedding I had not considered it.”

Sansa forced another smile, something she had gotten quite good at.

“I met your mother once. When I was still Renly’s queen. She did not deserve her death. Don’t convince yourself otherwise.”

“Can I say something traitorous?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. “I wish for all our sake’s, yours in particular Lady Margery, that Joffrey dies as painfully as my brothers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I aged Tommen up I think, because he's gonna be kinda important in the future.


	3. Robb II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb Stark's escape from the Riverlands.

They fled across the Riverlands, always running from the Frey’s that had been sent to catch them. It surprised him that the Freys even still held up, now that Walder was dead. Whenever they could they separated some of them in the woods bordering the neck, ambushed them and slaughtered the traitors. In the beginning he’d thought it would bring him satisfaction to bury his blade deep in a Frey soldier’s neck, but it only made him sad to see the life leave their eyes. He was getting tired of fighting.

They passed the Kingsroad with ease and continued on. 

They could never go to the Vale, that he knew. Lady Lysa Arryn may be his aunt, but she would likely sell him to the Lannisters first chance she got. And even if not, the mountains were full of wild clansmen, much more savage than those up in the North. Besides, Littlefinger had been sent to the Vale to wed Lysa Arryn, and there was no way in the seven hells that he wouldn’t betray them. 

No, Robb would stay in the Riverlands, fleeing from town to town, hiding in woods and swamps, until he reached the Bite. 

One of those days he couldn’t go on. He called for the men to stop and set up camp for the night, even though they’d slept the night before already, and had decided to only rest every other night. Perhaps worst of all was the rain, drenching through his clothes and chilling him to the bone. Robb fell to his knees before a tree, and for a moment the pale thing almost looked like a weirwood. The pain he’d been missing after the massacre had finally kicked in, slowing him down considerably. He wished for home, for Maester Luwin. It would all be so much easier. But Luwin was dead, and so were his home and his family.

Robb did not bother put up a tent, only lay his head on the cold ground, softer than the finest pillow, and dozed off immediately. 

Smalljon Umber woke him after a few hours of uneasy sleep in the dead of night. They continued on for days on end, chasing around the Riverlands, killing Freys, running for their lives. He hated every second of it.

By the time they reached the coast of the Bite he wanted nothing but die. But he couldn’t. There was a small port town that had some ships for them to take to the Sisters. There, they’d buy proper ships, and sail on to Eastwatch-by-the-sea, but for now these would have to do. Robb had never really been on a boat before, and got sick the minute they boarded the Seawind Feather. 

They stayed less than a night on the Big Sister, but news likely went out the minute they set foot on the island. He wanted desperately to sail into White Harbour, but knew better. Wyman Manderly had lost to sons through him, one dead at the red wedding, the other a prisoner at Harrenhal. Whether that was enough to have Robb‘s head on a spike he did not know, but he wasn’t about to test that. 

They sailed far around Widow’s Watch and then through the Shivering Sea they went. By the time Skagos was in their sight, Robb no longer believed he could survive this flight.


	4. Shireen I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen is left at Eastwatch-by-the-sea and greets unexpected visitors.

Princess Shireen of the house Baratheon stood lightly on the wall like some reed the wind could so easily blow away. Her mother feared that exactly that would happen, that Shireen would fall to her death before her father came back. The concern for her would be almost sweet, if Selyse didn’t do it solely out of fear of having to explain to Stannis what had happened to his child and, unfortunately, heir. 

With a sigh she closed her eyes and felt the sharp wind on her face. In a few days, her father would come and get her and they would head to Castle Black. But until then she had to stay here with Selyse and the rest of the queen’s men. Shireen pretended she didn’t know why they were called that. She also pretended she didn’t know why Selyse was here at Eastwatch and Melisandre with the king. Shireen did a lot of pretending in that regard. 

She opened her eyes again and stared across the vastness of the North, the real North, beyond the wall, where they said creatures of ice and children of the forest roamed. When she’d been younger still, she hadn’t believed the stories one bit, but since the appearance of the comet and the dreams of dragons plagued her, Shireen began seeing it as more than bedtime stories. 

She was barely twelve, but the last few weeks had proven that she would have to start growing up a lot faster from now on. King Stannis had faced defeat in some horrible battle and he had been gravely wounded. Shireen had cried the whole night through, uncertain whether her father would make it or not. For if he didn’t, she would have to be queen. But Stannis had recovered quickly, and in a few days he would come and get her and take her with him to Castle Black.

“Princess Shireen?” 

She turned to see one of the Black brothers standing at the foot of the cage. 

“What is it?” she asked, suddenly frightful.

“There’s a ship arriving. You might want to see it.”

She entered the cage with him and tried to get more information about this strange ship. There were no banners flying and no ravens had been sent before, so he could give her none. The only ravens that had arrived where those that brought news of the fall of the wolves. Dark wings, dark words, was the saying, and it had rang true. They had written of the death of Robb and Catelyn Stark, crushing the hopes of alliance Stannis had written of, now that he had clearly seen that they needed help. 

The man led Shireen to the harbour where she too could see the ship. 

“Where is my mother, queen Selyse?”

The man shrugged. “We told you first. But someone’s probably getting her right now.”

There were dozens of men on the ship. Well, ships. There were five ships, but one lead. Shireen pulled a little knife under her cloak, ready to defend herself against whomever the ship would bring. She felt horribly small in that moment. No one stopped the ship from docking. No one spoke a word. A group of men and women came out, and a great beast of a wolf. Shireen had never seen a direwolf before, but from what the maester’s books said, this was it. She took a small step back.

“Who are you?” Shireen demanded with a thin voice. 

One of the men came forward, leaning slightly on a woman. He had an iron crown on his head, nine swords and northern runes.

“I am Robb Stark.” He said. “The king in the North. We had hoped to speak to king Stannis.”

She took a deep breath. “He’s at Castle Black. I am princess Shireen. We had heard you were dead, Your Grace.”

“Not quite.”

“If you would follow me.” She told him and lead the man towards the castle. “Cotter Pyke holds command at Eastwatch. He should hear of this.”

She took Robb Stark to Cotter Pyke and excused herself to write a letter to Stannis. She did not speak to her mother. She wrote of the arrival of the man they had   
believed dead, wrote him the number of ships and men, and told him that she would journey to Castle Black immediately. Her heart was pounding as she watched the raven fly. She left Maester Harmune to his studies again and went away to pack. 

By dawn the next morning they rode out along the wall, past abandoned castles and icy keeps, and for the first time in her life, Shireen Baratheon felt like a queen to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to make the ages a little clearer, in this...   
> ...Robb and Jon are 16, Sansa is 14, Arya almost 13, and Bran and Rickon are like twins or something here and they're both 11.   
> Shireen is 12, Tommen 10, Margaery is 15, Gendry is also 15, Theon is 20, Jeyne Poole is 15, Joffrey is/was 14, Myrcella is 12, Meera is 14, Dany is like 17, idk


	5. Margaery I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedded she had been before, but not bedded, and today would not change that. Joffrey would not make it that far.  
>   
> aka: the purple wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: I took most of this straight from the book, sometimes even literally quoted, especially with what the characters say and with descriptions of Margaery's looks. That's why it's a slightly different style from the chapters before. I will probably take quotes from the books more often from now on, particularly with Sansa, as her story remains mostly unchanged.

Today she would be queen, tomorrow a widow again. Wedded she had been before, but not bedded, and today would not change that. Joffrey would not make it that far. It was risky, but if it worked, then their plan would make her queen again, Tommen’s that time. Tommen was a sweet young boy, a child, and he would be easily controlled. And upon their wedding Margaery would be queen of the seven kingdoms, and no longer half at the mercy of Cersei Lannister. The woman hated her, that was plain to see, and if Cersei had her will she would never see Margaery wed to king Joffrey. 

With a sigh Margaery studied herself in the mirror. She was already in her wedding dress, ivory silk and Myrish lace, her skirts decorated with floral patterns picked out in seed pearls. She looked lovely in the glass, but anxious too. She would have to get rid of that. Margaery let a smile spread over her face, it was easy to fake by now. She did it whenever she faced her betrothed, but thankfully that would soon be over. It would be easier to smile for a young boy than for a cruel king. 

She had seen Joffrey’s sadistic nature, and heard many stories from Lady Sansa. Only two days ago she had confided to Margaery of Joffrey’s latest cruelty, a box containing her brother’s unborn child, that had been sent to Sansa’s chambers. Lord Tyrion had burned it immediately, but Sansa had said the image was etched into her mind. She had truly grown to care for the Stark girl. They were going to be sisters through Willas, but someone had told and instead they were both to be Lannisters now.

With a bright smile and a laugh, Margaery made her way to her wedding. 

_____________

She could have worn black and gold for her maiden’s cloak, as Renly’s widow, but her grandmother had advised her to come to the ceremony a Tyrell, in a maiden’s cloak made of a hundred cloth-of-gold roses sewn to green velvet. She stood in the sept, between the towering gilded statues of the Father and the Mother, Joffrey next to her. He was a pretty boy, golden hair and golden crown. Pretty and golden had never been her type. Still, she felt a certain giddy, childish excitement. It was her wedding after all. 

Her father came behind her and tenderly removed her cloak. Joffrey smiled at her and shook out her new cloak, then draped Margaery in the crimson-and-gold and leaned close to fasten it at her throat, his hands brushing over her skin. She did her best not to tense under his touch, uncomfortable with him so close. It was only for a day, at least. 

“With this kiss I pledge my love!” he declared with an arrogant smile.

“With this kiss I pledge my love.” She echoed. 

Then, he pulled her close and kissed her long and deep. His wormy lips met her own and he forced her mouth open with his tongue. Margaery needed all her strength not to push him away in an instant. 

She barely listened to what the High Septon said, just focused on smiling as happily as she could manage. Margaery had always been a good actress and it came easily to her. She had rehearsed all her reactions for the wedding beforehand. The smiles, the flourish, the shock, then the tears, the way she could scrunch up her face and remain beautiful still. It would be easy to get through the day, regicide and all. She followed out of the sept behind her brother Loras in his white scale armor and snowy cloak, Ser Meryn, whom she barely noticed, and Tommen throwing rose petals from his basket. She could not wait to be done with Joffrey and move on to Tommen. 

The wedding businesses continued and nothing truly caught her eye. Until she spied the next part of their plan. The queen of thorns had sought out the company of Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister. Her grandmother’s hand went to the hairnet, such a simple gesture.

“Did you hear what I said, Margaery? I can’t wait for our bedding!” Joffrey whispered in her ear.

She nodded and grinned happily, already awaiting his emending death. 

______________

They rode into the throne room, that had been splendidly prepared for the feast, on two matching white horses. Margaery had changed again, into a much more revealing gown, pale green samite, with a tight-laced bodice that bared her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. Strangely, she had gotten used to gowns like this one. Her hair was loose now, tumbling down her back and over her shoulders, almost reaching her waist. 

For a moment she almost regretted that Joffrey would die so soon, just for a moment, for she wore slim golden crown on her head. A queen she was, as she had been raised to be. 

They were escorted onto the dais and seated. The once queen Cersei embraced her a little too tightly, her nails digging into Margaery’s skin, and kissed her cheek. The High Septon prayed again. 

Seventy-seven dishes were served, and she fed them to Joffrey one after another, as he got drunker and drunker. She cried as prettily as she could when they sung of Renly’s great deeds as though he had had any. 

Then came the horrible business with the dwarves, and the first time things didn’t go as planned. Joffrey made a show of himself, pouring wine on his uncle. She had seen quite enough.

“My sweet king,” she said and took his elbow softly, “come, return to your place, there are more singers waiting.”

Lady Olenna came to her help, but it did nothing to soothe Joffrey’s temper.

“Ser Addam wants to make a toast as well. Please, Your Grace.” She pleaded with him, growing frustrated. If he were less drunk she might have had success.  
  
Margaery’s heart stopped for a moment when Joffrey knocked over the chalice and the wine spilled. She shot her grandmother a worried glance, but Olenna just shook her head slightly. Not this wine yet. 

“The pie?” Joffrey took her by the hand. “Come, my Lady, it’s the pie!” 

She hadn’t even noticed that the pigeon pie had been brought in. Joffrey drew his sword and, alarmed, she put her hand on his to restrain him. 

“Widow’s Wail was not meant for slicing pies.” 

She knew he liked it when he said the swords name and her tactic worked. He had Ser Ilyn do it again and Margaery couldn’t help but look over at Sansa. This man beheaded her father before her eyes. 

The chalice was refilled. This was it, she knew. Margaery barely listened to the way he tormented his uncle now, always keeping her eyes on the wine, waiting for him to take the fatal sip. 

“I want…” His words broke up in a fit of coughing.

“Your Grace?” she had played it out so many times, her reaction was the perfect mix of happiness, concern, and confusion. 

“It’s, kof, the pie, noth- kof, pie.” Joffrey tried to take another sip of wine, but it all came spewing out as he coughed. “I, kof, I can’t, kof kof kof kof…” 

The chalice fell from his hand. 

“He’s choking!” she gasped.

“Help the poor boy!” her grandmother screamed.

It was much, much, more violent than expected and in the end the tears on her face were real, from shock and disgust.

“You did this!” Cersei Lannister pointed at the imp first. “You killed my son, my boy!”

Apparently, Margaery’s reaction hadn’t been convincing enough, as next, she turned to her. “You all did this! You poisoned him, with your golden thorns too!” she turned to the people around them. “They killed him! Your king! Take them! Take them all! The imp, the witch, take them!” she screeched, and tears ran down her face.

Panicking, Margaery turned to her grandmother. Her face showed genuine surprise. This had not been the plan at all. Not one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it, please let me know what you think.  
> Next chapter will probably be either Robb or Shireen.


	6. Robb III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb reaches Castle Black and meets with Jon and Stannis. A raven arrive from King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a particularly good chapter, but eh.

Blood. He smelled blood, tasted iron at the back of his throat. His feet pounded over the land, snow whirling where he went. His senses were heightened, his heart racing, he barely felt the cold, only the thrill of hunting. With a jump he sank his teeth deep into the flesh and began devouring his kill. He threw back his head into a loud howl. Above him, dawn was breaking.

With a start he was back in the abandoned keep of Sable Hall, one of the castles along the wall. Robb wiped his hand over his mouth, half-expecting blood, but found only skin. He reached out for Grey Wind again, to guide him back to Sable Hall. They had a long day of hard riding ahead of them if they hoped to reach Castle Black soon. 

Slightly shaking, he pulled his blankets back to himself and closed his eyes. Before his mind had entered Grey Wind’s, he had dreamed the sweetest things. He had been back in Riverrun. There had been a feast. Jeyne had been by his side and when everyone had gotten sufficiently drunk he had pulled her away from the crowded hall and they had made their way to their chambers. Jeyne had just begun undressing, laughing and smiling, when Robb had suddenly smelled blood all around them, and Jeyne had faded and he had been out in the woods, hunting that deer. 

Robb shook his head and got dressed. Those times were gone and Jeyne was dead. He wished his mother were here to tell him what to do. If his luck continued, Stannis was like to have him executed for treason. Princess Shireen had been friendly enough, but weary of them, and she had kept guards about her the entire time, and daggers beneath her cloak. 

______________

They travelled through the day and reached Castle Black by evenfall. 

If truth be told Robb hadn’t come to ally himself with Stannis, but only to reunite with the last family he had left, now that Sansa was a Lannister. Jon. His brother might not know it yet, but he was Jon Stark, legitimized for the case of Robb’s death without issue, to succeed him at the horrible task that was being King in the North. He had only just gotten out his crown, as he wanted to challenge Stannis’ superiority. 

It was hard to look at the crown now. He had given Jeyne a crown, smaller than his, but a crown still. Their son would have worn one too. With a sigh he got of his horse. He would kill them all. 

Robb left the talking to Shireen, as he had no interest in formal talk now. He had lost nearly everything, so why not his courtesy as well.  
He heard whispers as one of the Black Brothers lead him through the gates, in the yard they stopped their swordplay to look at him. He kept his expression cold and unaffected, didn’t mind the hushed talk of kings and wars. A small smile crept onto his face when he saw a familiar face, rushing down the stairs.

“Your Grace.” Jon bowed before him.

“Lord Commander Snow.” 

His brother looked up at him and could no longer hide a grin. Robb pulled him into a hug and began laughing despite himself.

“It is good to see you at last!” he said as he pulled away.

“Come. We can talk in my solar.” Jon gestured for him to follow.

Robb told his men to wait in the yard and went with him. They quickly made it there, and Jon closed the door firmly behind him. It was strange to sit on this end of the desk, looking half up at him, at the Lord Commander. Jon Snow didn’t look like had had remembered him. He bore a shocking resemblance to their father, and to the stone face of Brandon Stark in the crypts. Catelyn would have been furious. There was a small scar on Jon’s face, the stubble of a beard had begun to grow in, and all in all he’d gotten taller. 

“You look well.” He stated, unsure what else to say.

“You don’t. We had heard of your death at the hands of Roose Bolton. I was already contemplating to ride out and avenge you myself.” He seemed to be only half-kidding. 

“It is a miracle I’m not as dead as they say. The old gods must have a plan for us, bringing us together again.”

“The old gods, hm.” Jon paused for a moment. “Maybe. They are strong here.”

“Maybe some time you can show me a weirwood from beyond the wall.”

He smiled and then answered “Yes. I suppose I could. I’ve been there quite a lot.”

Robb didn’t dare question that comment. He would tell him eventually, but right now he did not feel like talking about Catelyn, or Jeyne, either, so he could hardly blame his brother.

“I wanted to go, you know. When I heard you were king, I rode out, but my brothers brought me back.” 

“It’s good that you didn’t, Jon. It would have made you a deserter.” He thought of Lord Karstark, suddenly. “By law, I would have had to execute you. And I don’t think I could have.”

“I know, but when I heard it… I don’t know. It may well be better like this.” Jon said and looked away. “I will call on king Stannis now. You need to come to some kind of agreement.”

Robb nodded solemnly. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting of Jon, but… It wasn’t this.

It took a while, but then he returned with Stannis. Robb had heard much of him, and he met his expectations quite perfectly. The last time alliance with Stannis had been considered, he had refused to work with Robb, whom he had seen as a traitor. But it would seem defeat had humbled them quite. 

“Your Grace.” Robb bowed his head stiffly.

“Your Grace.” Stannis sat down next to him, while Jon went back to his seat.

“Grace. Grace. Grace.” A raven quorked from next to them.

“Don’t mind the raven.” Jon said. “Now, I think there are impotant matters to discuss.”

Robb nodded. “I understand you see me as a traitor, Your Grace. But you must also understand that I will not give up the North’s independence.”

“I had feared such.” He paused. “But it is only natural for a king. I cannot take the throne, that is mine by right, without help. And you can’t take back the North without help.”

“We appear to have a similar problem.”

“It seems so.”

“If you help retake the North, then the North will help you win the Iron Throne. And once you’re kingship is secured, the North is to remain independent.”

“Yes. It is a pity your brothers are lost. One of them might have made for a fitting husband to Shireen.”

“They are dead, not lost. Dead.”

“We will talk more of this later. For now we will just have to trust each other, as hard as it seems.” For a moment it seemed as if Stannis was done, but then he continued. “How will you deal with the wildling problem?”

“The free folk do not pose a problem.” Jon interfered. “They are fugitives.”

“They are warriors.”

“They are an army, if you can get them.”

“I do not understand. Explain.” He demanded.

“I have let a significant number of free folk through the wall. They are fleeing from the white walkers.”

“White Walkers?” Robb let out an uncertain laugh. “Like in Old Nan’s stories?”

“A dear friend of mine, Samwell Tarly slew one at the Fist of the First Men. Two wights attacked Lord Commander Mormont. Do you remember the man father executed? He was telling the truth.”

Robb took a moment to process that. His whole life seemed to be going to shit. His family was dead or gone, he had practically lost the war, and ice creatures from Old Nan’s bedtime stories were driving wildlings over the wall. 

Before he could think of a good reply, a boy burst through the door.

“Your Graces, Lord Commander. There’s been a raven!”

Jon nodded and rushed out. Robb exchanged an alarmed glance with king Stannis. When Jon returned his face was unreadable. Then he looked up.

“Joffrey is dead. Poisoned at his wedding to Margaery Tyrell. Tyrion Lannister has demanded trial by combat to prove his innocence.”

“Are you sure? Joffrey’s dead?”

"Dead." the raven cried.

Jon nodded and gave the letter to Stannis. The king scanned the parchment briefly, and a smile crossed his face. Robb too read the words, hastily scratched onto the paper, the broken seal a smear of wax. His thoughts were all over the place, tying to process it. Joffrey was finally dead.

“Sansa.” He said then. “What will happen to Sansa?”

“If she’s smart she’s left the city by now.” Stannis answered but even he couldn’t keep a smug smile off his face. 

“As long as Cersei and Tywin Lannister live, Sansa is not safe.”

“No.” Robb agreed. “A wolf alone surrounded by lions will never be safe. Joffrey is just one more piece to fall.”


	7. Margaery II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei looses her most valuable allies, the Tyrells, and they pack their things to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a short one.
> 
> Just to clarify the timeline. Basically, the end of storm of swords, and feast for crows and dance with dragons are all happening simultaneously. When those plots are done, we basically continue on into a hypothetical winds of winter.

She screamed and cried, but no one seemed to hear. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t, keeping her eyes fixed on Gregor Clegane’s hand, that was crushing the Red Viper’s skull, digging deep. There was so much blood. Someone put a hand over her eyes then. It was her brother Loras, always shielding her from violence like that. That had been the moment where she’d realized it, that Oberyn Martell and Tyrion Lannister, two innocent men, had died because of them. ‘He choked!’ she wanted to scream. ‘It was supposed to be an accident! Not poison. He only choked…’

____________

The next morning, things got worse, so much worse. She had thought that at least she had accomplished something, that she would marry Tommen next, and be queen again. Cersei hated them of course, Margaery in particular, but she was not in charge. Tywin Lannister was, the great lion of the Rock, who’d been given a song so horrifying the Starks had died to its tune and every singer in attendance had played it for her wedding. But when morning came, Tywin Lannister was dead by a crossbow bolt, shitting himself. 

Margaery did not cry. She held herself with dignity and grace, and bore the stench of the man’s corpse, even though she feared it would make her sick. She felt numb.   
This hadn’t been the plan. She embroidered a piece of scrap fabric to clear her head. Growing strong. A horrible house motto. She thought of Lady Sansa, who had disappeared, accused of murder. At least she had good, memorable words. Winter is coming. Winter was, in fact, coming. In the snow, roses couldn’t bloom. Margaery set aside her embroidery, a small scene of flowers and swirls, stood up, straightened her dark skirts, and went to stand by the stinking corpse once more. 

Cersei Lannister came to stand beside her, and Margaery was grateful for her veil, so the queen may not see her frown. Even she couldn’t keep a smile all the time.

“Good mother.” She said as joyous as she could. 

“Not anymore.” A vicious smile distorted the queen’s face. “Now that you’ve killed my son.”

“Tyrion Lannister killed your son, and then your father too. The gods have spoken to it.”

“Oh, the gods. Trial by combat is not a thing of the gods. It’s a thing of men who seek blood.” She set her eyes on Margaery again. “And women. You poisoned my son, with the help of my imp brother, the traitor. And then you freed him from his prison!”

“I do not know what you talk of, Your Grace, I-“

“Don’t lie to me you little Highgarden whore!” Cersei interrupted her. “I found your coin, you bitch!”

“I do not know what you speak of, I-“

“Don’t lie!” the woman hissed “You will never, ever, marry my boy, my precious Tommen! You will never be queen you lying harlot!” 

Margaery plastered a smile onto her face and fled the sept.

_________________ 

Margaery wanted to scream when her father told her to pack up her things. 

Cersei had officially fucked herself into a corner, but where that would usually make her ecstatic, it now made her furious. She would not be queen after all. I want to be the queen. She had said to Petyr Baelish. For one day she had been, but no longer than that. One glorious day. Strangely she wished for Renly then. No real queen she’d been, but did that matter now? 

She tried to hide her fury and fold her gowns like the proper Lady she was. 

She would be an excellent queen. They all loved her, she knew it was vain to say, but only true. She had played the beautiful, generous young girl that could bring peace and prosperity. She was beautiful, she was, and intelligent too! 

“I should be queen!” she told her bed. 

Behind her, Lady Olenna cackled like some old witch. 

“Don’t be a child. Cersei is doomed now. That is the best we can hope for now. Stop whining and pack.”

“You promised, you promised I would be queen! If only we hadn’t lost Joffrey!” she said bitterly, not truly meaning it.

Her grandmother’s smile faded.

“Is that what you want? To be married to that beast of an incompetent boy king?” her eyes were hard. “I thought I raised you better than that!”

“I was queen. I had power, I… I could have learned to control him better! You never have faith in me! I can take a challenge!” Suddenly she was crying like a little girl. 

Olenna laughed dismissively and waved her hand.

“You want to be queen so desperately? Fine then. Robb Stark has resurfaced at the wall.”

“Grandmother! You cannot think to marry me to Robb Stark!” she protested. “He’s half a wolf, a savage Northener, a shapeshifter!”

It was only rumours, but all she had to go by. 

“And king in the North. He needs an heir like all kings do. And his brothers are dead, his wife and child too. He’ll want a beautiful bride like you, especially if she brings ten thousand swords to his cause!”

There was something stirring in her. She was scared, yes, terrified, id truth be told, but also… excited. She had heard stories about Robb Stark, about the king in the North. They called him the Young Wolf. They said he rode to battle on the back of a giant direwolf. They said he could turn into a wolf himself if he wanted to. And they said he couldn’t be killed. 

What if they were right?


	8. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is taken away byy Littlefinger to the Vale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a quick retelling of Sansa's story in Storm of Swords after the purple wedding.   
> Chapters like this will come up often so I don't have to just rewrite things from the books or leave the story incomplete.

“You killed him.” 

Sansa said as she stared at Dontos, three crossbow bolts, one in his chest, one in his belly, one in his throat, the stench of blood carrying through the night air.

She listened to all he said, trying to judge whether or not she could trust him. She wanted to, desperately, wanted to have people who didn’t help her for gold, people who weren’t cruel to her, people who weren’t Lannisters. 

“They think Tyron poisoned Joffrey. Ser Dontos said they seized him.”

She wanted him dead, didn’t she? Something twisted inside of her. 

Littlefinger smiled slyly. “Widowhood will suit you, Sansa. It won’t last though. I have great plans.”

“Lord Baelish-“ she started.

“Call me Petyr.”

“Uh, Petyr,” Sansa corrected herself. “Can I go North?”

He frowned. “The Bolton’s hold it. What would you want there? Even if your brother Robb lives it is too dangerous to seek him out. You are safe now, that’s all that matters. You are safe with me, and sailing home.”

____________

“I am Alayne Stone. My grandfather was a merchant prince. My mother died birthing me. My father is Petyr Baelish. They met in Gulltown. I was raised by the Faith. I did not want to be a Septa, so I wrote to my father upon my flowering. Was that good?” she asked the mirror.

Alayne Stone. She thought of Jon suddenly. All her time in King’s Landing she had almost forgotten her half-brother. Now she was to be a bastard like him. Her father would no longer be Eddard Stark, but Littlefinger. She remembered watching him die. They all had no idea what it was like, seeing the sword come down. But no, those were the thoughts of Sansa Stark.

“I am Alayne. I have to be Alayne now.” 

With a sigh she braided back her long auburn hair. She hoped Robb hadn’t seen mother die like she’d seen father. Sansa had always looked just like Catelyn. 

A week ago Petyr had told her who’d killed Joffrey. Today her aunt, Lysa Arryn, would arrive at the Fingers to be wed to him, but Sansa’s thoughts still lingered on the Tyrells. 

Margaery had been so sweet to her, even after the betrothal to Willas was off. They had been so good to her. She thought back to what she had told Margaery, that she wished Joffrey to die as painfully as her brothers. Throughout the whole wedding she had pitied the older girl, but now it turned out she’d known all along that her husband would die. 

So many were dead now. When Sansa, err… Alayne, had heard of the fate of Tywin Lannister, dying on the privy, she had gone to her room and laughed. The gods were cruel, but maybe they had heard her prayers after all. Even Cersei had suffered. She had accused Margaery of having a hand in Joffrey’s murder and now ‘the great western alliance’, as Petyr had called it, was off the table, the Tyrells packed up and gone, where to no one could say. No marriage for Tommen.

It had been unladylike for her to laugh at their misery and death, but she was just a bastard now. 

_____________

Today as she looked in the mirror, her hair was so dark it seemed black in the dim light of the evening. It made her even paler. She remembered Arya as she combed through her dark locks. Arya had never been as pretty as Sansa, or even Jeyne Poole, but the reflection still reminded her of her. But Alayne Stone did not know Arya Stark. Most likely her sister was long dead, she had hoped. But hope was never enough. 

It had been weeks since her ‘father’ had wed Lady Lysa. Weeks since the wedding, weeks since they’d arrived in the Vale. But it had only been two days since Littlefinger had pushed her aunt through the moon door. 

They had had no news from the wall, only the knowledge that Robb was alive. It was what kept her standing. 

Sansa looked away from her reflection, and to the hairnet in her hands. She turned the beautiful black amethysts in the delicate silver net between her fingers, remembering how Joffrey had choked. 

Hope was never enough. Arya Stark had been captured and was set to wed Ramsay Bolton. She felt strangely numb. She thought of her snow castle and was happy again, if only for a moment. Then she remembered how Petyr had kissed her, and she felt as though she herself had pushed Lysa Arryn out the moon door. But she hadn’t. She would never. Would Alayne kill someone? She wondered. No. Alayne was devout, raised by the Faith, she would never kill anyone. Right? Alayne was bold, confident, manipulative. Lies came easy to Alayne Stone. 

She had kept the hairnet. Sansa wanted to throw it out the moon door, make the stones splinter when they hit the rocks. But something inside her held onto it, biding her time. It might be useful again… She wanted to blame it on Alayne, but that would be wrong. Starks were supposed to be honourable, but maybe the Lannisters had found their way into her head after all. 

The night before she had not dreamed of death or songs as she usually did, did not see silly things and bloodied swords. Instead she found herself running across an icy plain, towards a giant weirwood tree. When she reached it there was a deer there, dead. Sansa wanted to shy away, but then suddenly she sank her teeth deep into the deer’s flank and awoke with the taste of blood on her lips. 

Petyr could scheme all he wanted, marry her off to whomever he wanted, and poison as many kings as he pleased. When he was done she would tear them apart and eat them whole.


	9. Robb IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb Stark receives a letter and a visitor from Highgarden.

“Do ye know what’s funny, Jon?” Robb asked his brother as they were standing on the wall.

“There’s not much fun at the wall.” He replied with a weak smile. “So no.”

“I just want to go home.”

“You will.” Jon assured him and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll go home with an army and take back Winterfell. You’ve never lost a battle before, Robb. That won’t change now.”

“Aye, I’ve never lost a battle. But they won anyway. I meant before. I never wanted to be king, I just wanted it to be as it was before. I miss mother, and father. I miss Bran and Rickon and the girls, wherever they all are.” He smiled sadly. “I even miss Theon. I want to go back to how it was.”

“The gods are cruel.”

“Aye, they’re cruel. I know Catelyn was never good to you. But when I saw her die too, and then I felt Roose Bolton’s sword through my back, I thought to myself, let it end. Let me kill Walder Frey, and then die here.” He winced at the memory. “I was awaiting death, Jon. I wanted it. I was… content with it. I waited for the pain to kick in. It never did. I think to myself now, is this some jape the gods play? When men think I cannot die, do the curse me to live forever?”

“No, Robb. No man can live twice, no man can live forever. Did they make the rest true? Do you turn into a wolf at night?”

He hesitated, then laughed. “Yes and no. In my dreams I do.”

“Aye, so do I. Beyond the wall they called me a warg.”

“You went beyond the wall?”

He remembered Jon’s cryptic words about having been there quite a lot. 

“I did. You might hear them call me a wildling lover. They’re right. I joined the free folk on the order of the Halfhand, I went with them over the wall, broke my vows with a wildling woman. Then I left them again, and lead the defence against Mance Rayder. For that they made me Lord Commander.”

Robb took a moment to process that. His brother had gone with wildlings. Had broken his vows. Yet here they were.

“It’s all wrong, Jon. We’re both six and ten, not yet seasoned men. And yet I’m king and you’re Lord Commander.”

Jon smiled and pulled out a wine skin.

“To the god’s cruelty.” His brother said and drank deep, then passed it to Robb.

“To the god’s japes.” He replied.

_____________

The letter was sent from Highgarden, with a seal of wax that showed a rose.

“To the kings at the wall, guarding our realm so faithfully.  
A horrible insult has been dealt to the noble house Tyrell by the crown.  
My dear granddaughter Margaery has been accused of regicide. Not that it’s far off, but an insult beyond forgiveness nonetheless. Your houses have been wronged gravely too. I’m sure you know it and I don’t have to list it. If you have forgotten the losses you must be in worse condition than we would have thought.  
You need an army and we need a cause to back, to make it simple. Even simpler let it be said: We killed Joffrey for you, now we seek an alliance.  
Do not bother reply, our ship sails to Eastwatch as this raven flies.  
Lady Olenna Tyrell”

Robb read the letter twice over before bringing it to Stannis. The kings at the wall. Empty flattery.

“What interest would we have in the Tyrells?” The king asked, disbelief written on his face. “Were it not for them I’d have taken King’s Landing, killed the Lannisters and been king by now.”

“And – take no offense – I would likely not have faced these losses she speaks of, if truth be told I might be marching on the capitol to meet you by now.”

“The point stands. Why should we possibly give the Tyrells what they want?” Stannis reconsidered. “You do know what they want, don’t you? I take you for a smart man.”

Robb sighed, trying to hide the anger rising within him.

“They’ll want me to marry Margaery Tyrell, and Shireen for some Tyrell cousin.”

“So what do you propose we do?”

He thought about that for a moment.

“If we bind the three houses in marriage, one party will always come out on top. We can’t let the Tyrells have that. Lord Manderly says my brothers live, good. What is a better match for Shireen? Some minor Lord from the Reach? Or a prince?” 

_______________

The queen of thorns came alone but for her guard. She made it clear who was in control, and it was neither the kings, nor the Lord Commander. Olenna Tyrell hobbled into the solar and sat down, making the chair look like some kind of throne. 

“Are you going to stand there until your feet fall off? Sit!”

Whilst Stannis seemed righteously unimpressed, Robb did as she bid, cursing himself all the while. He was the king in the North, she just some cranky old Lady, but he was terrified of her, and not just because she had murdered Joffrey. 

So they sat.

“I am aware that you do not think highly of my noble house of Tyrell.”

“I could list all the wrongs you’ve done us, but I’m sure you’ve not forgotten.” Stannis answered.

Olenna smiled. “But now I seek to right these wrongs. To help you two fine young men retake your kingdoms!”

“You seek an alliance.”

“I said so didn’t I?” she turned to Robb. “What of you, boy? Has a lion got your tongue?”

He took a deep breath, resisting the urge to set Grey Wind on the old hag and wipe her smug smiles from her wrinkly old face.

“No, my Lady. I am simply waiting for your proposals, as I’m sure you already know what you want from us.”

“I think such a beautiful alliance should be made official. A marriage, perhaps?”

“A reasonable request.”

Olenna smiled. “My granddaughter Margaery is newly widowed. She is intelligent, beautiful, and of an age with you.”

“You would wish her to be my wife.” And queen.

“I’ve made that quite clear, have I not?”

“You have.” He replied pleasantly. “And I would be happy to have her.”

“Good. Thank you, Your Grace.” She paused then, and turned to look at Stannis. “I had done some thinking on that tediously long boat ride. For your daughter, the princess Shireen. Perhaps an arrangement could be made there.”

For once, Stannis left the formal talking to Robb.

“I must apologize. The princess Shireen is already betrothed.”

Olenna’s expression soured. “To whom, might I ask?” 

“My younger brother, Rickon Stark, upon his return from Skagos.”

“Skagos… We had been told Theon Greyjoy killed your brothers?”

“They got away. There was a witness, an Ironborn named Wex, currently in the keeping of Wyman Manderly.” Stannis told her with a thin smile.

“How fortunate.”


	10. Myrcella I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella deals with the death of her brother and starts to see the plan the Martells have for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick introduction to the Dorne storyline.
> 
> Myrcella is 12, Trystane is 13, Arianne like 19 or something, Elia Sand is 14, Rosamund is 12.

It had been a month since the news of Joffrey’s death had reached Dorne. Myrcella had cried a little, but her tears had been for Tommen, who would be king now. She missed her father and her uncles. Tyrion was gone too, and her grandfather as well. She didn’t think Tyrion would poison Joffrey. But who else would have.

When Trystane had seen her cry he’d tried to comfort her.

“It’s only natural to grieve. He’s in a better place now.” He'd said with his heavy Dornish accent.

“Maybe. But I don’t grieve. My brother was…” she had laughed. “My brother was a monster sometimes. He’d be killed eventually, I’ve known that since my father died.”

“You are very wise.”

“Thank you.” She had blushed. “I just say what’s on my mind. That could get me killed one day.”

“You’re safe here with us.” He had hesitated then. “You would make a very good queen.”

“Queen? I can’t be queen unless Tommen dies. And I don’t want him to…”

“In Dorne you would.” Trystane had said, as though it were the most natural thing. “Arianne will have Sunspear, not Quentyn or I.”

“But I’m not Dornish.”

“You will be as soon as we get married, which will be in a few years.”

That had made her hesitant. She wanted to marry Trystane. Every day she feared that her mother would take her away again, and she would never see Dorne again. 

“But Joffrey is dead now.”

“Yes, he is.” 

Now, she still thought of what he had said. By Dornish laws she was queen of the seven kingdoms. With her fingers she traced the cut on her face. She didn’t look like Rosamund anymore now. 

She stood up and dressed in one of her gowns. It flowed lightly over her, and wouldn’t be too warm for the hot Dornish sun. She liked Dorne very much. The mountains, the castle, the wide landscape. She liked the Martells, and the sand snakes, and liked to play Cyvasse with Trystane all day in the shade of the gardens.  
She was allowed to play with other girls her age, not like in King’s Landing where the watchful eye of her mother had always been on her. She was only two and ten, but had already flowered, though she hadn’t told anyone. She would tell them when they asked her. 

One of the older sand snakes had taught her to fight a little, and she had ridden out with Elia Sand, who seemed half a horse herself. If her mother had seen her, covered in dust and sand, rolling in the dirt with laughter, her beautiful face scarred, she might have died on the spot. 

She closed her eyes and basked in the sunlight for a moment, enjoying the warmth on her skin. She heard steps and opened them again.

“Princess Myrcella. A moment of your time?” Arianne asked and took her arm.

Myrcella looked up to Arianne much. She was beautiful, liberated, inspiring, and bold. 

“Of course.” She had to grin. 

“I have a personal question. Girl talk.”

She whispered in her ear as she lead her through the gardens. 

“Have you bled yet?”

Myrcella blushed and nodded. “Shortly before my brothers death for the first time.”

“Ah. When is your thirteenth name day, pray tell me?”

“Half a year’s turn perhaps. Why?” She asked.

“I think it should soon be time for you to be wed! If you have bled and will soon be three and ten…”

She tried to hide her excitement and think rationally. 

“I’ll be Dornish then. I would be queen if I were Dornish.”

Arianne laughed lightly. “Do not trouble yourself. You won’t be queen for some time now, Myrcella.”

But I will be queen. She thought to herself. You’ll make me queen, won’t you?


	11. Margaery III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery meets her betrothed.

“If you are so furious, why do you still insist on my marriage to him?”

“I am furious because I can’t have what I want. I am furious because we’ve been passed over for an estranged Skagosi who is most likely dead.” Lady Olenna shrugged. "For Robb Stark, that was smart. He takes up the vital power in the alliance. He will be a good match for you.”

“Please, grandmother, I don’t want to marry him!” she pleaded like a little girl. 

“Why not? He is a handsome and young king, that won every battle he ever fought in, and took a sword through the back without dying. You won’t be a widow again any time soon!” Olenna cackled. 

They had ridden out days ago, and now they were at the gates of Castle Black. There would be no formal greeting. It was quite favourable for her plans, though, as it would give her the time to seek him out privately and make an impression. If things worked for her, Robb Stark would lie awake at night, thinking of her.

With a sigh, Margaery brought her horse forward, and rode into the courtyard of Castle Black. 

“My Lady.” 

A young man bowed slightly before her. 

“I am Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” His accent was irritating. 

The king’s brother. She got of her horse and handed the reins to another boy. 

“I am Margaery Tyrell.”

“Rooms have been prepared for you and your brother.”

She looked to Garlan and his wife riding behind her. 

“Thank you. It is an honour to be here.”

“It is late already and the king has had a very busy day. I’m sure he’ll wish to meet you tomorrow.”

Margaery didn’t have to ask which king. She had no business with Stannis, hearing of warfare and politics. She was simply a means to an end, the price they had to pay for the armies of the Reach. 

_________________

The room was bleak and grey. I’m going to get married here. She realized suddenly as she dragged her fingers along the cold stone wall. 

She shrugged out of her travelling clothes and switched to a simple dress. It was far less revealing, those old gowns weren’t appropriate for the North, for the Night’s Watch, but still had a scandalously low bodice laced tight. The fabric was dark blue, not a colour of house Tyrell, but made of warmer cloth, embroidered with golden swirls and roses. Long sleeves hung down from her wrists. She took out the braid from her hair, letting it fall down over her shoulders and back. She looked beautiful, people always said she did. Would he like her? She wondered. Would he even take notice?

Worrying wouldn’t help. She practiced some smiles in the mirror that befitted the situation. Operation Robb Stark began right here.

Margaery left her new chambers and began wandering around the halls. She hoped desperately that his rooms would be noticeably different from the others somehow, some sort of sign that showed her where to knock. 

She shouldn’t have worried. Robb Stark stood in his rooms with the doors wide open. He was looking out the window tentatively, not noticing Margaery approaching. Her grandmother had not lied, he was very good-looking. Auburn hair curled around his handsome face, his eyes were a deep Tully blue. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but right now he stood slumped onto the window sill. He didn’t look like some unkillable savage. He just looked… tired. For a moment she stood in the doorway, watching him. He seemed so young and so horribly alone.

“Your Grace.”

He turned abruptly to face her. Then he eyed her up and down, clearly trying to figure out who she was.

“Lady Margaery.” he had a pleasant voice, though with a dangerous edge.

“Might I come in?”

He gave a curt nod and turned to look out the window again. She crossed the room and placed herself next to him at the window sill. There they stood. The wind was cold from outside and she shivered in her gown. She was unsure of herself. Normally she would open with ‘I hear we are to be married.’ But that didn’t seem like the right thing to say. 

“I was told you’d had a very busy day. What does one do at the wall?”

He shrugged. “Mostly just drive up and down in the cage all day long.”

She laughed. “Sounds exhausting.”

“In truth I was out hunting with Grey Wind.”

“Grey Wind…” she repeated.

“My direwolf.” 

As if on cue, a true beast of a wolf entered the room. She stood as still as a statue, afraid he would jump at her at the slightest movement.

“There’s nothing to fear. He won’t hurt you as long as you’re with me. And if he likes you he won’t hurt you at all.”

“Then I hope he’ll like me…”

She held out a hand towards the direwolf. Carefully the beast stepped closer, nudging her hand with it’s nose. Robb smiled weakly at her and straightened his shoulders a little. The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared and he picked up his crown from the window sill, set his jaw and turned to her.

“You must excuse me, my Lady. I have urgent business to tend to.”

“I look forward to seeing you again, Your Grace.” She told him truthfully.

______________

When she was back in her chambers she threw herself onto the bed with a sigh. He didn’t like her. He didn’t want to marry her. No amount of charm and beauty could replace the wife they cut open after the red wedding. Margaery stared at the ceiling with exasperation. 

At least Joffrey had liked her. Hell, even Renly had wanted to marry her. Not for her sake, but he had liked her at least, as a friend if anything. 

When she went to sleep that night, it was her who lie awake, tossing and turning, finding no rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://pin.it/1ESYeHI  
> https://pin.it/1MVuVgZ  
> A bad drawing of Margaery I made instead of doing my homework.


	12. Jon I

A pair of glossy black eyes stared down at him. “Corn. Corn.” 

“Stupid bird!” he muttered.

Jon pushed the raven of his chest and sat upright. 

“Maybe he’ll stop if you give him corn.” Edd suggested.

“Very funny. Fetch me something to eat.”

“Coming right up. The king would like to speak to you afterwards.”

“Which one?”

“The king in the North.”

Jon sank back into his mattress. It was nice to have his brother here at the wall with him, sure, but exhausting too. Stannis had largely left him alone, but Robb almost seemed to want his council. 

He got dressed quickly and broke his fast still sitting on his bed.

“Tell the king I’m ready to meet with him.”

Robb walked in with a pained expression on his face and a crown on his head.

“There’s news from our flowery allies in the south.”

“That bad?”

He cleared his throat and unrolled a parchment. “The Lady Arya Stark has been sent North to wed Ramsay Bolton and legitimize his claim as the Lord of Winterfell. She is to arrive and be wed to him in a fortnight.”

Jon could only stare at him. “Arya?”

“Yes. They have our sister.” He handed him the letter. “It’s idiotic, really. Arya has no real claim to Winterfell. I’m the king in the North and Lord of Winterfell and if I die you’ll be.”

“I can’t be Lord of anything. I’m a man of the Night’s Watch, hell, I’m Lord Commander.”

Robb shrugged. “Then Bran would be. Even if he’s dead, Rickon is not. He may be on Skagos but he’s not dead! And if he was that wouldn’t make Arya Lady of Winterfell. Sansa is the key to the North, not Arya. All Ramsay does is make more Enemies.”

He shook his head in disbelief at his brother’s indifference.

“Is that truly all you can think of? The line of succession? This is our sister we’re talking about, wed to a man worse than Joffrey and considerably harder to kill!”

“If this is truly Arya he’ll be dead on their wedding night.”

“She’s not yet ten and three, she’s a child, Robb. We have to save her, you have to save her!” Jon protested.

“We’ve lost too much already. I cannot risk it.”

He took a deep breath. “If you don’t do anything, I will!”

“And how would you do that?”

“Would you please leave me to my studies, Your Grace?”

Robb stared at him blankly for a moment.

“Are you throwing me out?”

“I suppose I am. I must discuss urgent business with Melisandre of Asshai.”

“Stannis’s red witch?”

“Do you know another woman by that name?”

He stood up and bowed stiffly, then stormed out of his own room. 

______________

Melisandre’s chambers were up in the Kings Tower, but he met her outside in the winding staircase. 

“Lord Commander Snow.” Her eyes seemed to burn strangely. 

“The grey girl on the dying horse.” He told her. “Have you seen her again?”

“I thought you would never ask…”

She slid her arm through his and began leading him up the stairs. 

“Robb will not go and safe her.”

“The king in the North has little faith.”

“It’s not a matter of faith.” Jon said quietly. 

“Everything is. And your brother has none.”

“I don’t have a brother, no more than I have a sister. We put aside our kin when we join the Night’s Watch.” He reminded himself.

“Yet you’ve come to me to save her. To save your sister.”

She opened the door and to his horror he found the Lord of Bones sitting at her table, eating bread. He wanted to cave in the wildling’s ugly face. 

Jon tensed. “You.” 

“Lord Snow.” He grinned at him through broken teeth.

“What are you doing here?”

“Breaking my fast. You’re welcome to share.”

“I will not break bread with you.”

“Your loss.” The wildling ripped of a bite. “I could visit you just as easily. Those guards at your door won’t do you much good with a window in your rooms against a man who’s climbed the wall half a hundred times. But what good would come of killing you? They’ll choose someone even worse and two kings would be at my throat.” He chewed, swallowed. “Heard about your rangers. You should have sent me with them.”

Jon let out a huff. “So you could betray them to the Weeper?”

“Are we talking about betrayals? What’s the name of that wildling wife of yours? Ygritte, is it?”

Jon clenched his jaw. He hadn’t seen her since he’d let the wildlings through the wall. “She’s not my wife.” He knew it was a lie.

Rattleshirt ignored him and turned to Melisandre. “I will need horses. Half a dozen good ones. And this is nothing I can do alone. Some of the spearwives at Mole’s Town should serve.”

He frowned. “What is he talking about?”

“Your sister. You cannot help her, but he can.” She said and put a burning hand on his arm. 

“I think not.” He wrenched his arm away. “You do not know this creature. He’s more like to rape and murder her than save her. If this is what you have seen in your fires, my Lady, you must have ashes in your eyes.”

She sighed dramatically and then sent Devan Seaworth, who had been standing off to the side the entire time, out. Then, the red priestess touched the ruby at her neck, spoke a strange word, and then…

“Mance?”

“Lord Snow.” Mance Rayder, the king beyond the wall, did not smile. 

“She burned you.” He whispered more to himself. “What kind of sorcery is this?”

She did not answer him, only pointed a pale finger at Mance Rayder. “There he stands, Jon Snow. Arya’s deliverance. A gift from the Lord of Light… and me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation between Jon, Mance, and Melisandre is almost completely taken from the books...
> 
> I'm gonna try to write longer chapters from now on.


	13. Jeyne I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon still has a spine and a dick and Jeyne some semblance of agency, but neither will help them against Ramsay Bolton.
> 
> It has been a fortnight since Jeyne Poole, passed of as Arya Stark, was wed to Ramsay Bolton, and her life has been beyond miserable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay Bolton deserves a warning of his own, though he's not that bad in this chapter.

You don’t know hell until you’ve belonged to Ramsay Bolton. Theon had warned her on her wedding day not to displease Ramsay, but it had not helped. When Littlefinger made her a whore in King’s Landing she’d thought nothing worse could ever happen to her. How she had been wrong. 

Jeyne lay curled up under the thick furs on the bed naked, pretending to be asleep still. Soon there would be a bath prepared for her. He liked her clean and at his disposal. Her body ached, every muscle hurting, every part of her skin he could reach bruised or bitten. A particularly nasty bite mark scarred her left breast. That hadn’t been Ramsay. If she could just fall asleep again maybe she would wake up somewhere. 

She cried silently into the mattress. It amazed her how many tears she had to shed. The first days after her wedding Jeyne Poole had hoped to be saved. Some knight in shining armour, like the ones she and Sansa had fantasized about. Now, she knew that none were coming to get her. 

She heard the door open. 

“Lady Arya?” Came the weak question.

She heard his voice and knew it at once as Theon’s. Softly she emerged from the pile of furs to look at him. Ramsay had allowed him to trim his hair. When she had first seen him she’d barely recognized the man with the long grey hair and the shaggy beard. Now it was closely cropped and darker. 

“Theon.” Her voice was a mere whisper.

“Reek. My name is Reek, it rhymes with leak.”

“No…” she whispered. “It’s Theon.”

“You must bathe, Lady Arya.”

He pulled her up and lead her over to the tub, hobbling along. She didn’t know the extents of what Ramsay had done to him, but he had lost some of his toes, that was clear, and multiple fingers as well. 

He had told her once that he could still hold a knife. She had asked him why he didn’t use that. He had told her that he wasn’t strong enough to fight Ramsay. That he never had been. 

Slowly she slid into the warm water, sinking deep under.

“Drown me.” She whispered. 

He stopped. “What?”

“Please drown me, Theon. End me.”

He didn’t answer, only kept pouring water on her. 

“Turn around.” 

She did and he began softly wiping the blood and sweat of her back with a rough-spun towel. 

She remembered how Littlefinger had had her whipped. She had displeased the men that had come to her, the customers, and cried as they’d fucked her, just like she always wept when Ramsay came to her, night after night to rape her. She remembered all the horrible things he’d done to her, and Theon too, all the things he’d made them do. At Winterfell she had loved the hounds, and the wolves too, but with one simple night he’d ruined her. 

“Help me.” She whispered. “You have to help me.”

“I can’t. I’m just… Reek. I can’t do anything to help you, Jeyne.”

She had tried to fight Ramsay once. He had come to her drunk and hurt her so and she had taken the wooden letter opener, a blunt thing, and stabbed him with it. All the power left in her had gone into it and she had shoved it deep into his arm. He’d cursed and screamed and hit her and promised to flay the skin from her hands sand arms until she bit off her own fingers. He hadn’t though. He’d been called away to his father and had forgotten all about it, drunk as he’d been. She had cried herself to sleep, like every night. 

“Jeyne?” Theon’s voice called her out of her thoughts. 

“Yes?”

“Maybe I can do something… Not to free you, but to give you a little freedom at least.”

______________

“My Lord…” she began timidly.

“Who said you could speak to me?” he sneered.

“I just… I… I wanted to ask permission to leave these chambers.”

“What?” he grabbed her arm with such force it would leave another bruise.

“Well, I had heard that people think I am unwell… and…”

“Who told you that?”

“I don’t know, I… someone at one of the feasts… one of the washerwomen… I… I don’t know anymore. I just thought… maybe if I were to show myself a little more people could see that I’m not unwell, then…”

It was what Theon had told her to say. She had practiced it, spoken after him sitting in the bath. ‘Freedom.’ He had told her. ‘Just a little of it, but still.’ 

Ramsay stared at her strangely. She could see confusion in those horrible pale eyes of hers.

“Yes… maybe that would show the Lords… Yes. Walk around all you want, but don’t even think about trying to escape me, wife! You know what I'll do to you I take it!”

“Thank you, my Lord. You are too kind.”

“Yes.” He said. “I am too kind.” 

He pushed her back onto the bed and began undoing the laces of his breeches. She could not allow herself to cry now. That would ruin her efforts. Jeyne didn’t struggle anymore, though she had only been wed for a fortnight. 

She pressed her face into the furs to muffle the pained screams that escaped her every time he pounded into her. She bled onto the mattress, bled so much she thought she might die on the spot. 

When he was done he got dressed again and left the room. One of the maids came in after, looking terrified as always. She had a small cup in her hands.

“My Lady? Your Moon Tea…” she said quickly and shoved the cup into her hands.

She drank the bitter tea down in one go. The only thing she kept from Ramsay, the only thing she relished in. She would not have his children, would not give him an heir.

“Thank you. Prepare a bath.” She said quietly. 

“But you’ve already had one, Lady Arya.”

She shuddered. “Come closer.”

Then Jeyne put her hand between her legs and brought it back bloody. She showed her hand to the maid.

“Please. Prepare a bath.”

“Yes. My Lady. Of course, my Lady.” She did a small curtsy and fled the room. 

The warm water did not soothe the pain.


	14. Margaery IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery gets has three weddings, a feast, and a bedding.

Margaery looked as beautiful as ever, in a long dark green gown of silk, embroidered with the finest golden roses and wolves, and her long hair braided intricately up her head, interwoven with pearls and golden thread. All her beauty mattered little as it wasn’t looks that swayed the king in the North. If it were she’d have it easy – but no. 

This was a purely political affair. They would even be wed thrice. First in the fires of R’hollor, then in the Light of the Seven, and lastly before the Old Gods. She wasn’t looking forward to her third wedding in a sept, but the ceremony would be changed anyway. 

She had tried to charm Robb Stark as best as she could but he was very unreceptive. She had walked with him every day along the wall and sat with him at every meal and was there when he came back from a long day of riding to receive him and ask him about his day. She told him about herself and asked him may questions, which he seldom answered. Now, on the day of their wedding, she was none the wiser concerning him. At least Grey Wind seemed to like her. 

The two maids that she had brought with her from Highgarden circled her, smoothing her skirts and straightening her laces, gushing about how lucky he must be to marry her. But it was the other way round. Robb Stark could have any woman he wanted, but nobody would want to marry the woman accused of regicide, who switched sides thrice in a war with five kings. 

The first ceremony would begin at dusk, so that Melisandre’s fires could light up the dark shadows of the coming night. She hadn’t seen much of the red priestess and what she had seen had filled her only with contempt.

________________

The sun died beyond the dark walls of Castle Black, filling the yard with naught but shadows. Then the ditch lit ablaze in the distance, burning and blazing red. 

“R’hollor,” sang Melisandre, arms upraised to the dark sky, “You are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins. Yours is the sun that warms the days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark nights.” Her eyes seemed to burn in the distance.

“All praise R’hollor, Lord of Light!” the guests echoed. 

Margaery felt wrapped up in the strange prayers and blazing fires, and could suddenly understand why so many had joined Melisandre’s religion. Cold wind blew, but the priestess kept the flames alive. In her thin gown she was soon chilled to the bone, but the prayers were not nearly done.

“How much longer?” Garlan asked beside her.

“I don’t know. But I’d rather not freeze to death either…”

“The night is dark and full of terrors!” Melisandre sang. “Alone we are born, and alone we die, but as we walk through this black vale we draw strength from one another and from you, our Lord!” Her skirts swirled in the icy wind.

“Cheerful…” Her brother whispered.

“Two come forth today to join their lives, so they may face this world’s darkness together. Fill their hearts with fire , my Lord, so they may walk your shining path hand in hand forever.” The priestess continued.

Margaery felt giddy, looking at the woman by the ditchfire, and at the man that waited there for her. She would be wed today. She smiled up at her brother, who squeezed her hand reassuringly. 

“Lord of Light, protect us!” Queen Selyse cried, her husband next to her, his glowing sword in hand. “Lord of Light, bless your children!”

Melisandre raised her hands, and the ditchfire leapt upward toward her fingers. A swirl of sparks rose to meet the night sky. 

“We thank you for the sun that warms us,” chanted the king and queen. “We thank you for the stars that watch over us in the black of night. We thank you for our hearths and for our torches that keep the savage dark at bay. We thank you for our bright spirits, the fires in our loins and in our hearts.”

Margaery took a deep breath. Gods, why was she so nervous? It wasn’t that different from her other weddings.

“Let them come forth, who would be joined.” Melisandre spoke.

Her heart leapt as she took Garlan’s arm and let him lead her toward the fire. Robb waited for her there, looking handsome as ever, a small smile on his lips, that surprised her. 

“Who brings this woman to be wed?”

“I do.” Her brother spoke in the place where her father should stand. “Now comes Margaery of House Tyrell, a woman grown and flowered, of noble blood and birth.”

“Who comes forth to claim this woman?” she asked next.

“I do.” He said loudly. “Robb Stark, king in the North.”

Margaery felt a shiver run over her arms and not from the cold.

“Robb, will you share your fire with Margaery, and warm her when the night is dark and full of terrors?”

“I swear by the red god’s flames that I shall warm her for all her days.”

“Margaery, do you swear to share your fire with Robb, and warm him when the night is dark and full of terrors?” 

“I swear it.” She said, slightly shaking, and hoped they would never see a night filled with the terrors Melisandre spoke of. 

“Then come to me and be as one.”

Robb took her hand into his. Side by side they leapt the ditch, flames dancing at their feet. She felt blazing heat from the fire, licking up the hem of her dress. Then, they emerged from the priestesses fires. 

She barely listened to the final prayers Melisandre sang at the crowd. Shyly she smiled up at him. 

“We’re only a third done!” he whispered.

“Can’t we skip the Seven? I’ve done those already…” 

He laughed lightly at her joke. 

“I’m afraid not. Come on.” 

He pulled her along the way to the sept. The drunken septon’s prayers were as dull as ever, even more so now, after hearing the songs of R’hollor. She zoned out and studied the small building a bit. She wondered if news had reached King’s Landing yet. She was abruptly ripped out of her thoughts.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife.” Robb turned to face her.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.” She answered quickly. 

He pulled her to him softly and kissed her. She remembered how she’d shouted at Olenna about wanting Joffrey back. Gods, how she had been wrong. If she had to keep a husband, let this be the one. 

In a small group they rode out, Stannis, Selyse, Shireen, Jon Snow, some of Robb’s men, a few Night’s Watch men and even some wildlings, beyond the wall to the weirwood grove where the men took their vows. She kept glancing over at Robb, who had a hand on his sword. Grey Wind walked along next to them, everyone was alert. By now she wore her maiden’s cloak, to protect against the wind, and at the gate they’d given her a dagger and a torch. 

“What is everyone afraid of?”

“Jon says the Others are back.”

“The Others? As in ‘The Others take him’?”

He smiled grimly. “Exactly. I don’t really believe it, but there’s bad things in these woods. I can feel it.”

She knew no reply to that, so she just looked back to the ghostly woods and hoped to reach her destination soon. They found the small clearing in the deep of the wood where nine weirwoods grew in a rough circle. Margaery had barely ever seen one before, and it had been long dead. The forest floor was carpeted with fallen leaves, bloodred on top, black rot beneath. The wide smooth trunks were bone pale, and nine faces stared inward. The dried sap that crusted in the eyes was red and hard as Ruby. She took in a sharp breath and stopped.

“It’s beautiful…” 

“It’s false.” Queen Selyse said with a sour expression. 

“No falser than your red god.” Robb said coldly and then added a mocking “Your Grace.”

“We leave the horses here. This place is sacred.” One of the black brothers said.

Robb helped her off her horse and they entered the grove together. He unfastened the golden maiden’s cloak from her throat and pulled the bride’s cloak over her shoulders. Grey on white wool, a direwolf graced the cloak, the symbol of house Stark. She was a Stark now. They knelt before the heart tree in silent prayer. Margaery felt the presence of something horribly powerful between the pale trees, felt their eyes judge her. 

Then, Robb stood. Margaery opened her eyes again and looked up at him. He gave a small reassuring smile and pulled the crown from his cloak. It was a small circle of iron swords, like his, and placed it on her head. It was surprisingly heavy, but a crown should be. 

________________

They danced a few rounds and enjoyed the feast. There were not nearly seventy-seven courses, but a great big pie was brought out, which they cut open together. Crows flew out of it, a mocking of Joffrey’s pigeon pie, she did not doubt. 

Not one singer played the Rains of Castamere. They sang ‘Two hearts that beat as one’, ‘The bear and the maiden fair’, ‘Brave Danny Flint’, which made her weep, and ‘The night that ended’, which earned many cheers from the drunk Night’s Watch men. One got up on a table and very sloppily performed the ‘wolf in the night’, along with two of his friends pretending to be maddened horses. Some wildling women began singing a song they called ‘The last of the giants’ and Margaery couldn’t help but notice her new good-brother Jon hastily turn away. She listened to the words, mesmerized, and found tears on her face by the end. 

“Is that a common song?” she asked when the music was done, and a bard continued with ‘My Lady Wife’.

Robb shook his head.

“I’ve never heard it before.”

“I have.” Jon said quietly. “The free folk sang it beyond the wall.”

“Oh.” 

“Why do they play all these sad songs? I don’t want to spend my wedding feast crying in the corner.”

Many come forth to present their congratulations, some more successful than others, drunk on wine and merriment. Margaery did her best not to drink too much, but it may well be better to be as drunk as the men around her. She had never thought to be this nervous for her bedding, as she had had some… experience with a few of her ladies in Highgarden. There was nothing to worry about, really. 

But whenever she looked over at Robb, she could see he didn’t want her there. She understood it, really she did, he’d just lost his first wife, whom he’d loved dearly, but he could at least pretend to like her. Why had he even agreed to marry her if he didn’t like her? He didn’t need them. She knew that now. As long as the Tyrells were neutral, Stannis and Robb could win against the Boltons and the Lannisters. Margaery was good at reading people, but he confused her still. 

With a small sigh she emptied her cup. 

It was one of the Northern lords who called for the bedding. Smalljon Umber, Robb informed her. The singers began playing ‘The queen took off her sandal, the king took off his crown’ and everyone got up to carry them away. Margaery felt as though she was going to be sick. Renly had spared her a bedding ceremony and a bedding, and Joffrey hadn’t made it far enough for either. 

She laughed nervously as she was picked up by a dozen drunk young men fumbling with her dress and making bawdy jokes at her expense. She shivered on the way up through the dark staircase. Her gown had been abandoned on the top steps. She had spent most of the way clutching her crown to her head to avoid it falling off.  
Laughing, they pushed her through the door into the very room she’d found Robb in on the day she’d arrived. The door closed. They were left alone in the room, dimly lit by the light of a torch. For a moment she just stared at him. He looked good like he always did, but her eyes kept wandering to the deep scar on his chest. He took his crown off his head and set it on a small wooden nightstand. She mirrored his action.

Margaery suddenly felt very naked in her smallclothes, and couldn’t help but blush. Slowly he stepped behind her and began undoing her braids. She reached up to help, pulling the pearls out of her long hair. It took a while but then he was brushing out the last braids with his fingers, her hair curling softly to her waist. 

She turned around slowly to look at his face. There was a strange look in his blue eyes, something between anger, grief, and desire. He was taller than her and she had to stand on her toes to meet him, brushing her lips to his. He pulled her to him and deepened the kiss. She reached up to bury her hand in his hair, that curled softly on his head. She wanted to feel him, to touch him. His mouth was hot on hers, his hands burning on her skin. How could he be so cold to her yet burn like a fire through her? 

He pulled away again. 

“What is it, Your Grace?” she whispered, longing to kiss him again.

“Robb. Just Robb.” He said. “It’s... It's nothing of importance…” He brought his mouth to hers again, shutting her up. 

He brought one of his hands up to her breast, cupping the soft flesh, brushing his thumb over her nipple, with his other arm he lifted her up. She barely noticed that he had walked them over to the bed, too caught up in his hands on her body. He sat her down on the mattress where she quickly began stripping out of her smallclothes, desperate to be close to him again.  
She was shocked at the wetness she found between her legs, the pooling heat. One of his hands went there, softly rubbing between her folds, finding a spot that made her shudder under each touch. Sounds escaped her that she had never thought she could make.  
Very carefully, Robb entered her, and she gasped at the sudden pain. They had said it would hurt, but she had almost forgotten it. How could such pleasure ever come with pain? He stopped and kissed her deeply again, giving her time to adjust, before doing it again, quicker this time, reaching deeper inside her.  
She came quickly with a soft scream and collapsed beneath him. How she must look, flushed red, her hair a mess, shuddering in the pillows... 

The torch went out and darkness surrounded them like a blanket, suffocating her. Margaery fell asleep with her head against his chest, enjoying the warmth while it lasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I have to update the rating to E or not?
> 
> Here's another bad drawing: https://pin.it/2bZ9xow


	15. Shireen II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen sits at the wedding feast and asks wildlings about Skagos.

It was so loud in the hall she thought for sure she’d go deaf. The music blurred together to one continuous uncoordinated song, as the musicians got drunker and drunker. The king and queen in the North had just been carried out of the hall, but Shireen had not participated. Maybe if her mother and father hadn’t been at the feast she would have, but sitting between them she did not dare. 

She had danced a dozen rounds with a dozen men, until her feet hurt and her head spun and she had to sit down again. 

“I will go pray.” Her mother said with a sour expression and left.

“I do not see why we’re all still here. The wedding’s are done, and the couple is gone.” She told her father.

“Men will take any excuse to get drunk.”

“I like weddings.” 

It was a stupid thing to say, but she didn’t know anything else. 

“I wanted to talk to you about that.”

Shireen froze. “Yes?”

“To solidify the alliance between our houses there will be another marriage.”

She swallowed and asked “Who do I have to wed?”

Stannis smiled slightly. “Robb Stark has two younger brothers.”

“Didn’t Theon Greyjoy murder them and dip their heads in tar when he sacked Winterfell?” 

“Who knows what Theon Greyjoy did? He certainly didn’t kill the Stark boys, according to Lord Manderly. We should’ve guessed it, really…”

“If he’d had the Stark boys he would have kept them recognizable.”

“Good. Yes, he would have. Brandon Stark is lost beyond the wall. You will wed Rickon Stark, the youngest, upon his return.”

Her heart sank. “Of course. From where will he return? Where is he?”

“Skagos.”

“Skagos?” she asked in a choked voice. “Are you sure?”

“The prospect delights me as little as it does you. But to serve this alliance you must do your duty, as we all must.”

“When will he return?” 

“I will send Ser Davos to Skagos upon your flowering.”

“And then we will be wed.” She said, more to herself, and emptied the cup of wine they’d poured for her at the beginning of the feast. 

One of the Northern Lords came to speak to Stannis and Shireen fled the table.   
Her flowering could be any day now. For a moment she considered it. What if I hide it from everyone? But no, she had to do her duty. If marrying some Skagosi savage was what it took then so be it. 

She looked around the room. There were some wildlings here, another display of unity at this wedding.

“Who are ye staring at?”

Shireen hadn’t even noticed that she’d been staring at the spearwives. They sat in a circle on the ground, all clad in furs with spears and bows at their sides. 

“I wasn’t staring, not truly. I’d just gotten lost in my thoughts.” 

She turned to leave but one of the women beckoned her closer. She had shaggy black hair and dirt on her face.

“Are you some fancy lordling’s daughter?” asked another one.

“I am Shireen Baratheon. My father is king Stannis.” She crossed her arms defiantly. 

“Come sit with us, Shireen.”

Carefully she sat down in the circle. They began chatting happily again.

“I’m sorry, can I ask a strange question?” She asked the spearwife closest to her. 

“Depends on the question…” she laughed.

“Have you ever been to Skagos?” Shireen asked quietly.

The woman laughed again and shook her head. “Why would I go t’ Skagos?”

“I hear they have helms of unicorn skulls!” One of the younger girls piped up.

“I hear they file their teeth to a point and eat their victims alive. Sometimes I’d like to do that…” Said a woman with red hair that was buried in a pile of furs. 

“Aye, they do.” The woman she’d initially approached confirmed. “N’ they bathe in their blood, too!” 

“Are you sure that’s true?” Shireen asked, growing increasingly frightened.

“It is. Why d’you want t’ know about Skagos of all places?”

“The man I am to marry is currently on Skagos.” She told them.

At that, they erupted in laughter. Shireen turned bright red.

“Oh you poor girl! The gods must’ve forsaken you… First they turn ye half to stone, then they make you fuck a Skagg!” 


	16. Robb V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb lies in bed thinking of all the things that have happened and all the mistakes he's made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapters a little short because I hadn't been planning on doing it, but felt the need to explain Robb's thought process to explain his actions in the past chapters.

Robb awoke from his dreams as the light of dawn crept over the horizon and sent him back into his own body. When sleep had begun to give him no peace, he’d begun to treasure just laying in bed, not awake and not asleep. The girl was still sleeping peacefully next to him, her long brown locks covering her back and her face like the soft waves of a river. 

He’d been horrible to everyone. To Margaery, his new wife who was beautiful, intelligent and funny, and whom he barely deserved the longer he thought of it. To Jon and to Arya, who were the only family he had, but didn’t bother helping. He was supposed to be inspiring and strong to his men, to be their king, but all he was, was tired. He had lost. Even if he marched on the Boltons, defeated them, took back his home and saved his sister, what use was it? He’d gone out for justice, called the banners to save his father, but he’d failed. Joffrey was dead anyway, what did it all matter? Robb was tired of fighting and continuing on, tired of vengeance and justice and war. 

He wanted to save Arya, he truly did, but going against the Boltons, safe behind the walls of Winterfell, in the first snow storm of Winter, was madness. He had to think of the consequences. 

The last time he’d done something for himself his mother had died for it. Family, Duty, Honour. It had been honourable to marry Jeyne, but he’d forsaken his duty for it. If he’d just married the Frey girl, if he’d just done what he’d promised… He should have listened to Catelyn, gods damn him. Weren’t four thousand men enough to dishonour one woman for? 

He should ride out with an army and take back his home. But oh, he was so tired of it. Even Jon would make a better king. Maybe he should just sail away into the sunset, and die in western lands unknown, while his brothers could deal with the war. 

But there was no peace for him. In the South he would kill the Lannisters and the Freys and in the North he’d defeat the Boltons and the Ironborn. He had to. 

With a sigh, Robb closed his eyes again, remembering how happy he’d been after his first victory. Remembered the glory of hearing songs sung of him. Remembered the pain of his father’s death, the betrayal of Theon, the piece of skin he’d been sent, the marriage of Sansa to the Lannisters. Remembered the small light of happiness Jeyne had been. When he closed his eyes he heard the rains of Castamere, and felt the sword plunge into his back, felt hot blood running down his chest, soaking his clothes. He opened his eyes and stared at the grey ceiling. 

He missed his home, missed Bran and Rickon, Arya, Sansa, mother and father. Curse the king for ever coming to Winterfell, and curse him even more for ever dying. He missed the time when wars and alliances didn’t have to concern him. 

But oh those times were long gone. He looked down at his still sleeping wife. What did she know of war? Renly was the king of summer and died before fighting any battle of importance. His mother's guard Brienne had said Stannis was a kinslayer that killed his brother. But Renly would have killed Stannis by the time the sun came up, and thousands of men would have died with him. Robb couldn’t kill Jon if he tried. He’d thought about it, ever since Jon had told him that he’d wanted to join Robb. He remembered Rickard Karstark’s execution. He hadn’t thought twice about it. It had been justice. But hadn’t Karstark’s murder of the Lannister boys been justice too, for his sons? And wouldn’t two thousand men be high enough of a price to forsake his honour for once?

He ran his fingers through Margaery’s hair. The Tyrells had all they’d wanted. Their precious crown for Margaery. His mother would have liked the match, no doubt, that was another reason he’d agreed at all. She was beautiful and intelligent, but whenever she spoke to him she tried to manipulate him, and whenever he looked at her he felt reminded of how replaceable he was. Two of the five kings still lived, and two of the three other kings had been married to Margaery too. Tommen had replaced Joffrey, Euron Balon. Upon Stannis’s death Shireen would be queen. Upon his Jon would take his crown. And if the Tyrells were clever his wife, too, no matter his wildling woman. Growing Strong. How he hated the golden rose and the flowery words, and the girl in his bed, and how he hated himself for it all. 

Margaery stirred next to him and dizzily opened her eyes.

“Good morning…” She said softly and rested her head on her arms.

He only nodded. “They’re probably expecting us already. We should get dressed.”

He could see her hold back an angry sigh, and instead force a smile onto her face. 

“Of course.”

He wondered if Joffrey had noticed her pretty acting. 

He pulled himself from her grasp and got up. Quickly he got dressed and placed his crown on his head. He had gotten used to being king. He hated it.  
He waited for her to finish dressing in a simple grey dress and do her hair in a single braid, before offering his arm.

“My queen?”

She smiled a bright, genuine smile and took his arm.


	17. Jeyne II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeyne spends some time with her maid and some washerwomen.

She was sitting at the small window in her room when the maid snuck in and pulled the cup from her cloak.

“Drink!” she pushed it into her hands.

Jeyne did. It burned in her throat.

“Thank you. What’s your name?” she asked the girl for the first time.

“Bessa.” She answered dryly. “Bessa the castle maid.”

Jeyne smiled weakly and wrapped her fingers around the warm cup. “Thank you, Bessa. You’re very brave to help me…”

“The North remembers, m’lady. The North remembers.”

“I don’t know what I would do without your help. I can’t bear his child. I would hate it.”

“You can’t hate your children, m’lady.” The maid told her. 

“Do you have children, Bessa?”

“A little boy. Rodrick.” A smile crossed the older girl’s face. 

“Like Rodrick Cassel?”

Bessa nodded. “The father admired the man.”

“What happened to the father?”

“Red wedding. He was outside in the tents with the other soldiers. Some Frey cut him down.” The girl looked wistfully out the window. “The North remembers.” She repeated. 

“Why do you help me?” Jeyne whispered, clutching the empty cup between her thin red fingers.

“The North remembers. Your brother’s at the wall, m’lady.”

“My brother… I don’t…” I don’t have any brothers, she wanted to say. But Arya had brothers. “Jon?”

“Aye, him too. But I mean Robb. He’s our king! He will come down with an army, he must.”

“Robb…” she repeated.

“The North remembers. Let’s hope it’s king does too.”

She wanted to confess to Bessa that she wasn’t Arya, wanted to tell her that no one would ever pay her for her help. But if she did, Bessa might never help her again.

“He will. I’ll make sure of it.”

The maid gave a thin smile and took the cup back from her.

_________________

You don’t know fear until you’ve belonged to Ramsay Bolton. 

Whenever she heard steps behind her door she hid away in the furs, and he dragged her out to beat her. But she never learned, and hid time and time again, hoped he would just leave. She began praying. He would tell her horrible things, how he would cut off her feet if she tried to run, and she begged and cried, and quivered before him, one look from his horrible inhumanely pale eyes enough to sent her into a state of terror she had never experienced before. There was no use in trying to run, or wishing for death, hers or his, release from him would never come. 

Today it was not Ramsay that came through the door, but Theon. Theon was the only one she trusted, dangerous as it was, the only one who knew who she was. She wept bitter tears until her eyes were red and puffy, and shivered in her furs, when he opened the door, and carefully closed it again.

“My Lady?” He asked.

“Jeyne…” She wept. “I’m Jeyne…” 

“Yes you are. But you have to be Arya today.”

She poked her head out from beneath the pile of furs and saw that he had already gotten out a simple dress for her. It was made of thick grey wool. She had sewn a wool dress once. With Sansa. Sansa had always been so beautiful, and her dress had been so pretty, much prettier than Jeyne’s. She wondered if her friend was still alive.

Theon pulled her up softly and pushed the dress into her arms.

“Wh- why? Where are we going?” She sniffed.

“To meet with a singer. With Abel and his washerwomen. Please, Jeyne, hurry.”

He lead her past the guards and down the tower quickly, stumbling with every step. Icy wind blew into her face when they reached the walls.

“It’s so cold…” she whimpered. 

He nodded and pulled her along. No one looked at her, everyone kept their heads down and their thoughts to themselves. 

“They’re afraid…” She told Theon. “They think Robb or Stannis will come for them!”

“If we’re lucky they’re right…” he said in a voice so low only she could hear. 

They reached the Godswood under the pretence of praying. When they reached the heart tree she expected Theon to call for someone, but instead he went to his knees and stared into the red eyes. Jeyne knelt beside him in the snow, shivering in the cold. 

“The Turncloak came!” a woman exclaimed behind them.

She turned to see and found a washerwoman, one of those that played the drums at her wedding feast. 

“I said so, didn’t I?” Theon answered defiantly. 

“Aye, you did. But why would we trust a traitor’s word?”

Jeyne felt the irrational urge to defend him. 

“Who are you?” Her voice piped up weakly.

“Just some poor old singers, m’lady.” 

A man stood beside them that she identified as Abel. They were surrounded. 

“She’s older than he said.”

“You grow up quicker in Ramsay’s company. Or do I look twenty?” Theon asked them, still facing the tree. 

That seemed to satisfy the washerwomen.

“You’re Arya Stark?”

“Aye, she is.” Theon answered for her, and she had never been more grateful to him before.  
“Would I risk this if she wasn’t?” 


	18. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon talks to Tormund and thinks about Ygritte.

Tormund Giantsbane shouted at him and insulted him, roared like some great beast, and when he finally calmed down and accepted the terms given, he decided to annoy him instead. 

“I’m not asking you to kneel!” Jon was beginning to loose his patience. 

“He wanted Mance t’ kneel, did he not?” The man bellowed. 

“Mance Rayder was the king beyond the wall, of course he wanted him to kneel.”

“Aye, and then he burned him.” He shouted a little too loudly. 

“That was Stannis. I’m just trying to keep your people from dying out there. We could send ye back for the Others if you’d like that!”

“No you won’t, crow!”

“You’re right.” Jon confirmed. “I won’t. I only ask that you do as they say, not that you kneel to either of them.”

“And to you?”

He gave an exasperated sigh. “No! I’m not a king, and I know the free folk ain’t kneelers.”

“He made us burn our gods!”

“They’re my gods as well. And I’m not asking you to follow Stannis! You know that as well as I do. I want you to fight for my brother, and then you can have your safety this side of the wall!”

“You’re a little involved, aren’t you?” Tormund emptied his horn of mead. 

Jon buried his face in his hand, but remained seated. “He’s my brother and my king. And I’m simply trying to help.”

“Har!” Tormund laughed. “Help? You want us to die for a fancy castle my people ‘ave never seen. And for what? We’ll be safe, aye, but no longer free. You of all crows should know that!” He flung the empty horn at Jon. 

“I do know it.”

You know nothing, Jon Snow. Ygritte would tell him now. How right she would be. 

“My people won’t fight for a southern king! You killed their king and their gods. And don’t give me your ‘Stannis did that’ you’re all working together! You’re a traitor and a craven, who can’t decide which side to pick, even if your life depended on it.” Tormund laughed. All those things he’d said many times before already. 

“We’re done with this, Tormund. You know my terms.” 

After Tormund left Jon took the cage up the wall. Whenever he did he remembered climbing the wall, the winds threatening to blow him off, frozen fingers in thick fur gloves, with Ygritte climbing only a bit further up from him. She wanted to tear the damn thing down, she’d told him, wanted Mance to blow the horn of winter. She was still alive, had survived the attack, and was somewhere with the rest of the free folk hundreds of feet below him. He missed her, if truth be told, and more and more often he found himself wishing he’d stayed by her side, just killed that old man and been a wildling with her.

When he woke up he remembered how it had been to have someone, to be with someone. He wished he’d done as she’d said and stayed in that cave. They wouldn’t have missed them. The could have joined Gendel’s children in the tunnels as she’d said, and forgotten all about the wall and the war. 

Sometimes he wanted to go and find her in the camp, but he was afraid she’d kill him as soon as he came into sight. After the battle at Castle Black he’d searched with the bodies to see that she was still alive, and when he hadn’t found her he’d gone back inside to have his own wounds treated. At night he sometimes dreamed that she had died, by one of his own arrows, and every morning he had to remind himself that it wasn’t true. 

When the free folk sang ‘I am the last of the giants’ at Robb’s wedding feast he’d wanted to run off, but it would have only raised questions. Jon had looked around the hall to see if she was there and had found her sitting in a circle with some other spearwives. She hadn’t seen him looking, but he’d felt guilty afterwards. Ygritte had been just as he’d remembered her, her red locks a wild mess around her head. Kissed by fire. Lucky. The hair between her legs had been even redder. He quickly shook that thought. 

Cold wind blew into his face. Jon turned away from the North to face Castle Black and the Seven Kingdoms. He wondered if Mance Rayder had arrived at Winterfell yet. He must have. More and more he found himself thinking of his siblings. Only the gods knew where Bran was, and Sansa was gone too. They had never been particularly close, she never called him anything but her half-brother and treated him as he was, a bastard, but now he’d do near anything to have her here with them at the wall. 

With a sigh he took the cage down again and walked over to the training yard to watch the new recruits. A handful of green boys and two wildlings were going at each other with practise swords while yelling.

________________

One horn blasts shook the wall. Rangers returning.

Then, he heard a shout. “Jon!”

He looked around to find Edd Tollett. By the look on his face, even though he was usually called Dolorous Edd, it seemed grave. 

“What is it?”

Something twisted inside of him. He’d sent Grenn and a few others out a day ago. If something had happened to his friend… Edd did not answer, so Jon followed him, quickly running. The first horse that came through the gate carried two men, one sprawled out over it’s back, bleeding over the dark hair. 

“Dead people in the woods.” The ranger said. “With horrible blue eyes.”


	19. Shireen III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen attends a 'war meeting' and beats soldiers at cyvasse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a little longer because I wrote the next chapter first and then had to kinda rush this one.

“The marriage is done, the Reach on our side, truly, what are we waiting for?” Her uncle, Axell Florent, asked. 

Shireen did not know why she was here. ‘You must learn to rule, and you must learn the ways of war.’ Her father had said, but attending a very uncomfortable meeting during which she watched the king in the North get increasingly angry at her uncle did not seem to be the best way to go about it. 

“It’s not that easy.” Robb Stark said with a small sigh. “We can’t just march on Winterfell expecting all the North to fall at our feet. We must take it, keep by keep, and break the Boltons’ control.”

“What control? I’d been told the North loved the Starks.”

“Many of the Lords have sons or brothers captive at the Twins, still. If you had the choice between hateful peace or your brother’s death, what would you choose?”

Shireen suddenly did not want to be there anymore and began making up excuses in her head. She was tired. She had eaten something foul. She wanted to speak to her mother. All lies. 

“I don’t know about my brother, but my nephew Erren, for one, is captive at Highgarden!”

Again, the man sighed. “I will see to his release, my Lord, but this is hardly the topic at hand.” 

“So what would your Grace suggest instead?” There was a small, smug smile tugging at the corners of her uncle’s mouth. 

The Young Wolf drew in a deep breath and began. “Were it not for the fact that the Greatjon is captive, we could go to Last Hearth. If word would reach the Boltons and by extent the Freys, he would undoubtedly be executed at once. However, if Last Hearth were taken by force, without much resistance of course, then the Umbers would not have broken with their new liege. They would be prisoners of ours, and we would have a good base to continue south from, without endangering a single life, correct me if I’m mistaken. Smalljon Umber could be sent out to treat with his uncle.”

He turned to said man, who nodded slowly. Though they called him the Smalljon, he was the biggest man in the room, towering as he stood.

“Aye.” He said. “I’ll do that Your Grace.”

The council dissolved with promise of speaking further of this on the morrow. She knew exactly why. Today her father had installed her there as his eyes and ears, but she could hardly speak for him. They needed another king discussing the upcoming war with them, not a little girl.

None of them saw her as the potential future queen she was, only as a pawn to be married off to the king’s long lost brother. Whenever she thought of her inevitable marriage to this Rickon Stark they spoke of, her insides seemed to turn and she remembered all those terrible things the spearwives had spoken of. 

Why had her father told her about the betrothal right as the bedding had passed? She had been unable to get caught up in the merriment, too busy dreading her own. When before she had looked forward to her flowering, marking her as a woman grown, no longer some small child, she was now close to praying to the Lord of Light never to make her bleed. 

But she could not let her father down. Shireen was not only his daughter, but his heir, too. Stannis was and would be a great king. But, she thought in secret to herself, one day she’d be even better. The Lords and Ladies of the North and the South did not love her father. But one day they would love her. 

_________________

Somehow, she found herself outside in the camps, though she’d barely noticed walking there. Somehow, she had not taken any guards, oh how her mother would rage. Her breath became mist in the cold air as she walked through the snow, that had gotten muddy under too many a soldier’s steady feet. They all barely took note of her. Of course, when they did look more closely, they saw she was the princess and gave half-hearted bows and mumbled ‘Your Grace’s, before turning away again, minding her not. 

She stood at the side of a small campfire for a while, watching some young men play dice, and two even cyvasse on a makeshift table. The catapult of the younger boy took the older one’s dragon, his own then killed the king. The older boy groaned and tossed his opponent a few coins. 

“Can I play?” She asked suddenly.

The boys turned towards her and one sniggered.

“Why?” His eyes were on her greyscale.

“I have coin.”

It was probably not the smartest thing to say to a group of underpayed soldiers unaware of her position who would do much better to just steal her purse and be done with it. But the older boy stood up and gestured for her to sit. A few other boys gathered round the small board, likely to watch the boy win again. 

But they hadn’t counted on one thing: Shireen was good. Very, very good, at cyvasse. In a few moves she had him cornered, his dragon and his elephants gone. 

“Who taught you to play, girl?” He asked, surprise evident on his face. 

She didn’t know what to answer to that. Edric Storm, Maester Cressan, Davos, Patches once, whilst singing madly, had played cyvasse with her. Even Stannis had.

“My father.” She chose to answer. “Where did you learn it?”

He shrugged and placed his pieces behind the screen, which was a broken shield held by one of the other boys. 

She played two more rounds with him, then refused the money they tried to give her and instead asked for their life’s stories while she repeatedly beat them with ease. One of the older men managed to win against her once, flanked by four times he lost to her. Then she sat around the fire with the younger boys, feeling very unladylike, and even played dice with them, though she was not very good. 

When the sun went red and began to set she stood and fumbled in her cloak for her purse, filled with coins. She tossed it to the young boy she’d played with first. They gathered round and she could see their faces light up.

“A gift.” She said, smiling. “From the princess Shireen, of the house Baratheon.”

She pulled her hood up and ran away before they could process what she’d just said.


	20. Margaery V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery is angry at Robb.

Margaery hated Robb Stark. She hated how he never looked at her, how he never smiled when she was around, hated how he avoided her. She hated the coldness in his beautiful eyes and the sharpness of his words. 

Margaery loved Robb Stark. She loved the heat of his touch and the softness of his mouth on hers, loved the few moments when he let her in. And cursed herself for it. She was like some starved animal, craving the smallest bits of affection he gave her.

He was a contradiction. At night he was her husband, but when morning came he barely looked at her. His mouth was hot, but his words were cold, when she went to sleep in his arms at night she felt warm and safe, but as soon as she awoke he left her still half asleep. 

The most terrible thing about her new husband was how much she loved him when he let her. 

She was fed up with him. No matter how hard she tried, it was never enough for the king in the North, and the marriage she had hoped to at least be better than her first one and a half, had turned into a horrible game of pretend. She smiled, she laughed, she pretended to be content with sitting around all day wondering what on earth she was doing wrong to make him dislike her so. Even if he simply hadn’t wanted to marry her, he must have accepted it by now. She understood that he still grieved for the Westerling girl he’d been married to before, but again, he must have accepted the new reality by now. 

Worst of all, she couldn’t let out her anger in any way. All day she sat around and talked to people who worshipped the ground their king walked on, or sat alone in the chambers they shared, staring out the window, silently raging. Today would be different, she had decided. In less than a fortnight he would ride off to Last Hearth, and the day before he had begun going in and out of the room, checking letters he’d left in the drawers, packing things, all the while ignoring Margaery entirely, as he oft did. Only at night he couldn’t pretend she wasn’t his wife.

Again, he absently rushed through the door. She turned to look at him, his auburn hair in slight disarray, blue eyes scanning the cupboard he was standing in front of. 

“Enjoying yourself, Your Grace?” she asked sweetly.

Robb looked up, as if noticing her for the first time. He nodded curtly, and turned to leave again.

“Where are you going?”

He stopped in the doorway and turned to look at her. 

“I have urgent business to attend to.”

“No, you don’t.” She said sharply and stood.

He closed the door behind him and then crossed his arms in front of his chest. 

He sighed. “What wisdom do you possess that leads you to that believe?”

“You’re just avoiding me and that’s the best excuse you can come up with! What’s so horrible about me?”

“It’s not you-“ He began, but she didn’t give him time to finish. 

“I’m terribly sorry I’m not Jeyne Westerling, but you could at least pretend to like me! Even Renly did!”

He flinched at her words, but she could see anger flare up in his clear blue eyes as he took a step forward. 

“Don’t speak to me of pretend, Margaery, when it’s all you’ve done since you arrived here! It’s pretty how you manipulate everyone around you to appease your grandmother’s schemes! I can pretend to like you, as soon as you stop lying whenever you open your pretty little mouth!”

He stood in front of her now, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body. It was somehow more irritating than his insults ever could be. 

“You want honesty? You’re being an asshole! I have done nothing to enrage you so, yet you treat me like some terrible insult inflicted upon you, like you’d rather take another sword in the back than be married to me another day!”

“I never wanted to marry you!” He growled. “You Tyrells get all you want without shedding a single drop of blood! You live in your precious flowery dream world and even just looking at you right now is a reminder of how you always get whatever you want!”

“I hope you die at Last Hearth!” she screamed in her desperation.

“No, you don’t! There’s only one more king to go to, and he has no need for a wife. You have more than you did with Renly or Joffrey, and a pretty crown on your pretty head!”

“I hate you!” she hissed at him, her face inches away from his. She could see the hunger in his eyes. 

Without warning he pushed her against the wall and kissed her hard. Her mouth opened for his tongue and she melted into the kiss, to her own frustration. Another thing Margaery hated about him: how much she wanted him. 

Still angry, she tried to push him away, though only half-heartedly, but he was stronger than her. One of his hands went between her legs, sliding one finger into her, feeling just how wet she was for him. 

Robb pulled away again and gave a shit-eating grin. 

“Fuck you!” She hissed, breathing heavily.

He gave no reply and covered her mouth with his again. She whimpered as he entered her and her legs soon gave in. When he finally spent his seed inside her he stepped back, breathing heavily, and she had to hold onto the cupboard so as not to break down. 

He seemed surprised by himself, and quickly laced his breeches back up, ran one hand through his beautiful hair, and left the room as though nothing had happened. 

Margaery sank down onto her bed and stared at the ceiling, trying desperately to calm her still racing heart. That was most definitely not how she’d imagined that confrontation ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am painfully bad at writing smut, sorry bout that...


	21. Arya I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nymeria roams through the Riverlands and Arya remembers her pack.

Nymeria could taste blood on her tongue, the sweetest of things, as she took the first bite from the kill. Countless wolves were standing around her, watching with hungry eyes. She stepped back and threw her head back into a howl that filled the night. They answered the call and the nearest of her brothers and sisters began feasting on the deer they’d killed, three limp bodies in the cold grass. 

They yearn for the taste of human flesh, for the living prey to hunt, warm blood on bare teeth, screams that fill the night. Nymeria yearns for it too, too long it’s been since the last one, a man with a strange stone arc on his breast, and a face like a weasel. Hatred had flown through her veins at the sight of it. He’d had a great big iron stick, with an edge like a wolf’s teeth, but it had been of no use against her. 

Now, she could smell some fat boy, walking alone. Foolish of him. There are two wolves she is fond of in particular. A small grey she-wolf, that reminds her of her lost sister, and a great dark wolf, that follows her every step and is as far from a brother to her as one could possibly be. When she races off in pursuit of the sent they are the first ones to follow, though they will not be the last. With quick jumps she runs through the cold forest, her paws pounding over the frozen earth.   
From all sides they circled in on the road then, quiet as a shadow, waiting for Nymeria’s signal. When she gives it they will attack, fighting for the kill, savage as only her pack could be. 

A low growl escapes her and she crept forward. Then, the she-wolf stopped suddenly. The boy, with his smell of flesh and blood so enticing, was horribly familiar. He clutched his thin cloak closely around his fat body, looking around with fear. She could smell the now stale bread in his pockets. It must have been warm when he left the Inn of the kneeling man. 

Hot Pie stumbled along the thin road, unaware of the wolves in the woods. They crept closer, out of the thick bushes, from all sides. She had expected him to scream or cry or say “I yield!”, but instead he just stood there, shocked. 

Arya too slid forward, out of the forest, but at once she knew she could not kill him. He was Hot Pie. Once he had been her pack. He… and Gendry. 

The direwolf straightened up to her full hight, almost the size of a horse, and howled at her wolf pack with burning eyes. When one tried to lunge towards the boy despite it she threw him to the side with strong claws and growled, stepping in front of Hot Pie protectively. 

The wolf met his gaze with golden eyes and ran off into the deep woods again, roaming for new prey, that wasn’t part of her old pack.

_______________

With a loud gasp, Arya Stark awoke. No one, she reminded herself, I have to be no one. But oh she was, she knew that now… 

The Titan of Braavos roared in the grey city, mist and clouds never once showing the sun to her. 

It had been so long since she’d last thought of Hot Pie. Gendry crossed her mind oft, daily she’d have to say if she were honest, as hard as she may try, she could still hear him calling her name as the hound rode away with her. And she had not seen him since… 

But now she had seen Hot Pie again, that stupid baker. 

“I don’t miss them.” She told herself. “I didn’t before and I don’t know. Whom Nymeria spares is not my business.” 

Oh, but it was. They had been her pack once, through the Riverlands and Harrenhal, and to the Brotherhood. She never should have left. 

Suddenly, the door opened. 

“Who are you?” The Waif asked.

“No one.” She lied. 

“A girl lies.”

Arya hadn’t even gotten dressed yet, but the other girl already began hitting her with the horrible stick. 

“Who were you?” She asked through gritted teeth. “Before, I mean? When you weren’t no one.”

“We do not know.” 

She dodged a blow. “You don’t know?”

“When no one becomes us we must all forget.”

“But you know who I was.”

“When a girl is no one, no one will forget, all of us along with her.”

She felt numb, suddenly. When a girl is no one, no one will forget. But what if she didn’t forget? What if a girl were no one yet remembered Arya Stark of Winterfell? All her thoughts of Gendry and now Hot Pie too had been wrong, as she would never leave the House of Black and White, she’d believed. She knew too much already, so much they would kill Arya Stark if she did not stay. But if they did not know…

She set her face straight again, banning all emotion. 

“Who are you?” The Waif asked as she lead her downstairs.

“A girl is no one.” She answered, staring blankly at the stone walls.

“Today, a girl will go down to the brothel and find a woman with golden hair.” She smiled at that. “Today, a girl will give the gift to her.”

She felt in her pocket for the small vial of poison. Still, she could taste blood on her tongue.

“Valar morgulis.”

“Valar dohaeris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Thoughts?


	22. Jeyne III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeyne walks around for a bit before attending a feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as with most Jeyne chapters there will be depictions of rape/non-con.
> 
> I had a serious lack of motivation for writing this chapter, that's why it took so long... I hope the next one will be quicker though.

She shivered as she stepped outside. Even though she had gained freedom of the castle with Theon’s help she had not left, but for their visit to Abel. She could barely walk, anyway, and outside her chambers the cold awaited her, and a hundred pitiful faces that refused to help her. Jeyne’s body ached, every step hurt. You don’t know true pain until you’ve belonged to Ramsay Bolton. 

Snow covered the cold, dark stone of Winterfell, a ruin of the home she’d grown up in. It felt strange, foreign, not at all the lively castle Jeyne had once known. She wanted to pray in the god’s wood, but she feared Abel and the whores could find her again. 

She was afraid of them, even though Theon seemed to trust the singers. It was almost silly that she looked down on them, when these washerwomen, these camp-followers, these whores, were no worse than she was. Littlefinger had used her trust and forced her, but still she’d been a whore, no better than Holly and Squirrel and their sisters. 

But they were so wonderfully free, and Theon had told her that they would free her too, she need only wait and see. Jeyne believed not a word they had said. 

She stopped to look out into the snow storm, feeling the cold on her face. Maybe it would be easiest to throw herself from the walls and hope for a quick death. But no doubt Ramsay, in his anger, would hurt Theon again, and she cannot make him suffer even more for her sake. 

Jeyne wasn’t just avoiding the god’s wood for fear of running into Abel, but because it reminded her so of her wedding, of that day that had doomed her, kneeling in the snow beside Ramsay. Arya had been married to Ramsay, yet Jeyne had to endure it.

________________

It was loud and crowded in the hall, yet Jeyne felt horribly detached from the many lords and ladies sitting at her feet. In the corner Abel was singing the song of Brave Danny Flint, giving her an official reason to cry, one that could not offend anyone. 

Usually in the songs the maidens were rescued by gallant and handsome knights, that whisked them away from danger and gave them red roses and married them before the gods. But Jeyne was no maiden and life was no song.

She barely touched her food, even though she knew she was horribly thin, but could not bring herself to eat, for fear she could not keep it down, and might throw up all over her husband. It would be a pretty sight for a heartbeat, but then he’d likely murder her in his rage. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. 

No one spoke a word to her, not Ramsay, not Roose, not Fat Walda Frey. No one told her anything either. Then, the men had gotten progressively more drunk, and she had managed to become near invisible, a small man stepped to Roose Bolton’s side and whispered something to him and then to Ramsay. He listened intently, and then a maddened rage took over his expression, one that she had rarely ever seen in him before, a horrible anger that left her weeping again, and she had never been more thankful to hear “The day they hanged Black Robin”. The two Bolton’s left the hall shortly after, but most of the men were too drunk to care, and those who did take notice were not bold enough to speak their mind.

Judging by Ramsay’s mood, Jeyne decided it would be best if she got drunk as well, though she doubted it would do her much good.

“Lady Walda?” Her voice was a mere whisper.

“Lady Arya. Or, good daughter, I suppose, now that we are both wed.” She licked flakes of pie crust off of her fat fingers and eyed her suspiciously. 

“I am sorry, but I… I have been told nothing. My lord… my… my sweet love Ramsay… he… he seemed so troubled, I… do you maybe know what the matter was?” 

She looked down at her hands and found them shaking.

“Ill tidings from south. A fleet of ships have set sail, with golden roses and your wretched wolves on their banners, and an army in their bellies.” She squeaked out. “From your brother’s little rose, the Tyrell girl. A shame he didn’t just marry Roslin… We wouldn’t have had to do what we did if he did…” 

“An army… That’s not good, is it?” She asked, shivering suddenly, though the hall was warm. 

“No, Lady Arya. It most certainly isn’t.” 

Then, Fat Walda Frey went back to eating her third slice of pork pie. The old Jeyne would have made fun of Walda and come up with even nastier names to call her, but now… If she would see the real Arya again perhaps she would apologize, or perhaps she would hit her for making her live through this nightmare in her name. But then again, Arya was most likely dead. 

_____________

She had known Ramsay would be angry, furious even, and she had certainly known that she would face the consequences, but still when he dragged her up to the tower again, gripping her wrist so hard it bruised, she wept and cried out and tried to wrench free from his grasp. 

When he ripped the clothes off of her body she tried to cover herself up with small, bony hands, only to have him hit her so hard she tasted blood and went flying to the floor. She begged, for what she did not know.

“Please, no…” Jeyne wept as he seemed to tear her apart. “Don’t…”

“Shut up, bitch!” he spat, but she knew he didn’t mean it. He liked her begging and liked her pain. “I will flay the skin off your feet and hang it round your neck. Or maybe I’ll make a cloak out off it, for our son, how would you like that?”

“No… please! I won’t run, I don’t want to, please, no…” The words kept blubbering out of her, speaking to herself alone, trying to drown out the overwhelming pain. “I’m good, I swear… I was trained! Please, don’t, please… I’m a good girl…” Jeyne wept again.

She stared away into nothingness, into sheets soaked with tears and blood.


	23. Robb VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb takes Last Hearth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided that I really don't like my depiction of Rabbaery in this, but I'm very lazy and won't fix it. I just wanted to apologize for not doing this ship justice at all.

The pale light of the full moon crept through the clouds, revealing the castle Last Hearth between two dark hills. Behind each, a small number of men waited for his signal to start the mock invasion. Not a single life would be taken this night, not if he could help it at least. 

They had hooks to breach the walls, and the dark of the night would disguise them. No horses could charge, because Grey Wind would be sent into the stables to cause chaos. While the men were distracted, Robb and the others would open the gate from the inside and pretend to capture the Umbers. 

Robb had never been to Last Hearth before, but then again he had never seen the wall either before he’d gone there a few months ago. The castle wasn’t particularly big or tall, and had only one tower, looking more like a rounded block of stone between the twin hills. It was nothing compared to Winterfell, though there was still a certain beauty to it; the stone dome in the middle of it, the circular god’s wood around the central keep, forcing any guests to stand before the gods, the high walls and the windows alight. He wondered just how bright their hearth fire burned.

The Smalljon had in fact, ridden out to treat with his uncles and inform them of the plan. Their men were instructed to fight, but barely more than in the classical first-blood duels one could find at certain tourneys. It wasn’t like all the other castles he’d taken before. He would have to go back south sooner or later and take it all again. 

Robb had fled the red wedding to the wall with around a thousand men, and left five hundred in the Neck. Two thousand had left their lives. Stannis had two thousand southerners and was currently off gaining the support of the mountain clans for their now joint cause. They had already made a deal with the Manderlys, who would turn on the Freys upon their attack on Winterfell and most of the other Northern houses would follow soon. 

Now, he had barely two hundred men to take a castle that would practically open it’s gates for them, and every one of the men awaited his command. 

“Grey Wind.” He said softly.

Though his direwolf was on the other side of the hills he still heard Robb, in his head, felt the command, and threw his head back in an eery howl. 

Slowly the men began closing in on the castle, crossing the hills and beginning their climb. Robb was among the first to reach the walls. They threw grappling hooks over and began their climb. The wound in his arm was still not quite healed and seemed to throb as he climbed. He almost laughed when one of the men up on the walls who saw them first sounded a horn and then proceeded to hold out a hand for the first soldier to grab, pulling him safely up on the walls. The boy got a few seconds to breathe, before they both got out their swords and began half-heartedly fighting. 

A dozen they were now, on the walls of Last Hearth. The horn had called many men out to fight, mostly green boys and old men, and there was no more than a few minor wounds and scratches among the men and bizarrely enough a missing finger, and then all the defenders yielded dramatically. The fight was silent and the fight was dark, outsiders would never have known it even happened. 

“Open the gate, quickly.” He told a young boy standing next to him.

“Yes, your Grace. I’m on it.” He gave a hasty bow and went off with a few others. 

Robb had hoped to fight again would be exciting enough to take his mind off of all the horrible things that went through his head constantly. Instead, he just felt so empty.

Suddenly, a hundred torches lit up outside the castle and the gates were wide open. Cheering, the men stormed the castle, Jon Umber at the head of the procession, laughing loudly. Technically speaking they weren’t even done yet, but they already proclaimed “victory”. Grey Wind howled loudly again, having the desired effect of setting the horses into a mild panic. The men didn’t even try to calm them. Robb lowered his sword and ran down the stone stairs into the courtyard.

“I demand to speak to whoever is in charge here!” he told one of the soldiers firmly, trying to hide a grin. 

Until the break of dawn he was up, celebrating empty victory, and speaking with Mors and Hother Umber. He could not bring himself to call them Crowfood and Whoresbane, as much as he tried. Sitting before the two men he felt again like a green boy of four and ten who had never been below the Neck and quivered under the watchful gazed of greater men. But he could not be that anymore, he was a king now.

When the “negotiations” were done he had the Maester, who was coincidentally also called Jon, and a very old, very distant Umber cousin besides, send a raven to the wall to tell of their so-called victory and mobilize the army for their upcoming march on Karhold.

The following night, trying to catch up on lost sleep, he found himself genuinely missing the company of his wife, bizarrely enough. As he lay awake, finding no rest, he thought of her. They had barely spoken to one another since their, er… argument, before he had left for Last Hearth. It had been reckless folly, and unexpected to himself. He had given in to his desires and in truth it had been unfair to her. 

Soon Margaery would come to Last Hearth too, and follow wherever he went until she was with child, but in the lonely hours of the night he found that he didn’t mind.


	24. Jon III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a very stressful day and finds something outside his door.

The day the raven came was a fateful one. 

Like every morning, Jon awoke to the annoying sounds of Mormont’s raven screaming “Corn! Corn!”. Someone ought to give him a proper name… That day he was particularly infuriating, as when Jon pushed him away to get up he began chanting “Die. Die.” He wondered just how intelligent or not the raven was. 

He had just told Edd to bring some bread and bacon and a few bits of corn for the stupid bird when Clydas came hobbling in, half-blind like he had always been, but looking quite displeased.

“Lord Commander. A raven came from Last Hearth this morning.”

“Good.” He said as he took the scroll from him. “Summon the queen.”

“Queen Margaery, I presume?” 

He nodded absentmindedly, breaking the grey seal, the direwolf he’d never have thought to receive once more. It was written undoubtedly in his brother’s hand, always messy, and simply addressed to “the wall”. 

Robb wrote of victory and requested that men be sent so they may march on Karhold. He would have to speak to Selyse, or her queen’s men, or maybe Shireen. With a sigh he set the letter aside again and ran a hand through his hair. 

What he was doing was wrong, and he knew it full well. He was a man of the Night’s Watch and not supposed to involve himself in politics, but here he was, helping organize his brother’s conquest and advising Stannis on how best to gain soldiers. 

There was a knock on the door.

“Might I come in?” Asked a light voice on the other side.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Queen Margaery entered, dressed in heavy furs, a smile playing on her lips. Jon did not know what to make of Robb’s new southern wife. He did not fully trust the Tyrells, but Robb seemed to be able to control the girl well enough.

“Has there been word of my husband?” she asked pleasantly.

“Here.” He passed her the letter.

Margaery read it carefully, then looked up at him again.

“Well that is marvellous news, don’t you think? Not much of a battle I’m sure, but better than naught.”

“Certainly.” He replied dryly.

“I will prepare to depart on the morrow.”

____________

The next twist of fate they found themselves in that day was the arrival of Alys Karstark.

“You must help me, please, you must!” She clutched his arm.

“Calm down. We will help you, in due time, but-“

“Please!” Alys interrupted. “I swear, on my honour as a Karstark and as kin to you and even to your brother,” Her mouth twisted at that. “I swear that I, as I will soon be the Lady of Karhold, will hold to the Starks once again if only you will help me!”

He swallowed and looked at her again.

“I will see what can be done.” He told her with a heavy heart.

A grey girl on a dying horse. And Arya was still in Winterfell married to the Bastard of the Dreadfort. Maybe Jon could have felt sympathy for a fellow bastard once, but never for Ramsay Bolton. Not after what was likely happening to Arya this very second, not after his family’s betrayal of Robb at the Twins.

____________

He went to sleep with an uneasy feeling that night. 

He would have to think of some sort of solution for Alys. Marriage to someone, who, he’d have to decide when he was less tired and significantly less drunk, too, as he’d had one too many cups of Clydas’ mulled wine. 

He groaned and covered his eyes with one arm, as if it could help him fall asleep quicker. 

“Corn.” Croaked the raven. “Corn. Corn.”

“Shut up!” Jon hissed.

“Up, up, up.”

He turned to face the dark wall and stared until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was then that he heard the sound. 

It was a strange cry from outside his door, like the wailing Bran and Rickon had done when they were babies. But why would there be a baby outside the Lord Commander’s chambers? Gilly’s babe was down with the wetnurses, was it not?

With a sigh, Jon sat up and lit a candle and then a torch, and sheathed a small dagger at his hip. When he opened the door, he indeed found a babe lying on the mat, wrapped in a thick fur, crying. He looked around the dark hallway to find his guards missing. 

Carefully he crouched down to pick the baby up. It couldn’t have been older than a month. In the sparse light of his torch he could see that it’s eyes were a deep purple. Again, he looked around the hallway, one hand on his dagger, the other holding the babe. 

Suddenly, he could make out a dark silhouette on his left. 

“Who are you?” He demanded, and when that didn’t get a reaction he asked hesitantly “Who’s child is this?”

A woman stepped out of the shadows, one he knew all too well.

“Yours!” Ygritte said, her voice dripping with venom.

Jon almost dropped the baby at that. “M- mine? What- what do you mean, mine?”

His head seemed to spin. Again he looked at the child in his arms. Of course. He’d been with Ygritte for months, it only made sense. But still… I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. Gods, what a mess.

“Ye do know how babies work, Jon Snow, don’t ye?”

“But- why didn’t you tell me?” He asked softly-

“I was going t’. Would ‘ave told you, after the battle, ye hear that? But there was no after the battle! Cause you a crow again…”

His heart broke all over again at her words, at the hurt in them, the pain in her eyes. “I… I had no idea.”

“Well of course ye didn’t, never came t’ see! I was only a step away, but ye never came!”

“I thought for sure you’d kill me if I tried.”

She let out a huff at that. “Aye, I would ‘ave. A year’s turn ago. But no’ with her. I wanted you t’ see her, Jon Snow.” 

She stepped closer and took the child – their daughter – from him again. Then she turned away as quickly and as quietly as she’d come.

“Ygritte, wait! Please! I- I’m sorry. Truly, I am!”

“You know nothing.” She said and she might as well have stabbed him in the gut for all the good it did him.

He did not sleep for a moment that night, and felt more alone than ever before.


	25. Margaery VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clydas gives Margaery another letter and she makes a decision.

She left her good brother sitting half-asleep on his bed in his chambers and headed back towards her own in the King’s tower. Robb was in Last Hearth. Everything was good. It was only when she reached her chambers that she realized Clydas was still hobbling along behind her.

“I’m sorry. Can I help you?” Margaery asked pleasantly.

He looked around with half-blind eyes. 

“Ehrm, your Grace, there… there was another letter.”

“One that the Lord Commander did not see?” One that you kept from him?

“Eh… Might I come in?”

He reminded her eerily of Grand Maester Pycelle, and not in a good way. Still, she gestured for her guards to wait outside as she let him come in.

“The Queen Regent,” The old man said when the door closed, and pulled a shaky parchment from his black cloak. “The Queen Regent has sent you a letter…”

“Cersei…” 

The seal was broken, no doubt Clydas had read it already. And there, in Cersei’s angry handwriting it stood:

To my dear good daughter Lady Margaery Tyrell, 

I must offer my condolences for your no doubt forceful involvement in this plot to marry you to the Northern pretender Robb Stark, binding you to a man so highly unlikely to win this war it is almost laughable. 

I ask you only, dear daughter, see sense.

Deliver the traitor king’s head to me and be returned to your old place. You shall wed the true and noble King Tommen, your father shall return as Hand of the King. 

All that you desire shall be yours, good daughter. One flick of a knife, or one word to a loyal knight. Mayhaps just one word to a loyal steward… 

Do as you are told, dear, and the next letter may be addressed to Margaery Tyrell, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

I shall hope to hear from you soon, good daughter.

Queen Regent Cersei Lannister

“Out!” She shouted. “I need time to think…”

Giving a hasty bow, Clydas hobbled out. 

Margaery stared at the letter, thrice-be-damned letter! This was Cersei’s last, desperate attempt to somehow remain in power. 

It was tempting… Queen Margaery, not a queen, but the queen, as she had once told Littlefinger, but Cersei was likely to go back on her word anyway. Cersei would rather die than give power to Margaery, she knew that. 

But oh, it was tempting. Tommen would be so easy to control, a boy of ten, young, naïve. She would be in control again, not like with Robb, who was somehow unable to be manipulated. And her father – and thereby her grandmother – as Hand, oh, that would be so sweet. 

She stared at it again, read the letter once more, turned it in her hand, and felt a strange unevenness in the paper. With her nail she lifted a thin stretch of paper, and found another message. 

The Knight of Flowers wears a bright white cloak. We have your brother.

The letter fell from her hands. Loras. Poor, foolish Loras. Margaery took a deep breath. She could fix this, she had to. There was no choice, if she didn’t comply they would kill him. Gods be good, they would kill her brother! 

She picked the letter up again and crushed it in her hand, pacing up and down the room. She should never have left Loras in King’s Landing when she marched off into open rebellion. How had Olenna not considered this? Her grandmother never forgot anything!

Margaery stopped before the fireplace. She loved Robb, in a way. She would not be his death, she wouldn’t. Fuck Cersei. She won’t kill her husband. With shaking hands, she threw the letter into the fire, gasping as it went up in flames, cracking and burning. 

A plan. She needed some sort of plan, something. The Tyrells still had friends in King’s Landing. Her heart was racing, and her mind with it. Taena. Of course, it had to be Taena Merryweather, her best spy. The beautiful Myrish woman had even started sleeping with Cersei, and that golden-haired bitch trusted her. 

Still trembling, Margaery drew up a beautiful rose, then opened the door. My god, that rat had actually waited outside… Oh well. She gestured for him to come in. 

“Ehum, yes… my lady?” He croaked out. 

“Send this to Lady Merryweather, if you would be so kind?” Then, she let her voice go cold. “And don’t bother opening it, it’s in code. She’ll know what it means.”

She handed him the parchment, sealed with the old Tyrell rose, not her new sigil. 

Clydas smiled slyly. Good. Let him think he’s won. 

Gods, she hoped it worked. They had often used rose drawings to communicate, but this was much more vague… She shook her head. Taena would not fail her. She couldn’t. 

Margaery forced a smile and left for Jon Snow’s chambers yet again. 

“Your Grace.” He bowed slightly. 

It was music to her ears, to be called ‘Your Grace’, but it wouldn’t do anymore. “Please, call me Margaery. I am married to your brother, after all…”

“Well then, Margaery. What brings you here again?”

“I will ride for Last Hearth tomorrow, as I’ve said, and… I wanted to leave you a small piece of advise, if I may…” 

“Of course.” He said, nodding slightly.

“Don’t trust Clydas.” She told him. “He reads your letters, and he’s loyal to the Lannisters still.”

“I’ll remember.” He gave a sound that could be laughter. “This is the second time this week someone’s told me to beware. Daggers in the dark, Melisandre always says, but oh well…”

Margaery smiled at him, and then left again. ‘We have your brother.’ Cersei had written, and Margaery wondered if she’d made the right decision. It would have been so easy… marry Tommen, be Queen, save her brother, but… 

She had chosen a side, and this time she’d actually stick with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will finally not feature Margaery, yay. 
> 
> Also I don't like this chapter, idk.  
> But here's another bad drawing I did instead of writing: https://pin.it/7M6aWPG


	26. Myrcella II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella spends time with Trystane and realizes more things.

Myrcella liked the heat of Dorne. It had been warm in King’s Landing too, she’d had to realize that when her father took her up North, but never had the capital matched Sunspear and the scorching Dornish sun over the desert. And somehow, Myrcella liked it. Tan skin, revealing dresses, bathing in springs, and playing Cyvasse in the shade, she found no downside to the hot weather. 

In the morning hours when it was still cool enough Obara, the oldest and by far unfriendliest of the sand snakes had begun training her.

“There’s a war coming.” She’d said brusquely, “And even a princess need know how t’ defend herself.”

The way she’d said princess had left a bitter taste in Myrcella’s mouth, as though she’d meant for a different word… She had practically fled the scene, and into the gardens where she was still. She had gone to lay down, bedding her golden hair on the soft earth while her dress was dirtied in the sands. That was how Trys found her.

He laughed. “What are you doing down there?”

“Resting?” She suggested with a smile and gestured for him to lay down beside her.

Grinning, he did. For a while they just stared into the bright blue skies and watched the clouds come and go. Her thirteenth name day was approaching rapidly, and Myrcella was afraid. 

She wondered if Trys knew. Either he did and wasn’t telling her, making her the only one that no one bothered explaining anything to, or he didn’t and they were much more secretive than she had known. In that case they were truly just being used in some strange ploy to seize some semblance of power in her name. 

Myrcella Baratheon. Daughter of king Robert. That had always been her, without a doubt, until that cursed rumour had gone out from Stannis, her uncle who wasn’t her uncle at all if she were to believe him. That was another thing she feared. Her mother had always been particularly close to uncle Jaime, and it was true, none of them looked anything like Robert, while all his bastard children – the ones she knew at least – had black hair and blue eyes, just like him. 

But she wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t. 

“What are you thinking about?” Trys asked, bringing her back from her troubling thoughts.

“Not much, really. My name day. My name, my parents, and the rumours…”

“Don’t believe them!” He said, turning to face her. “Stannis just wants to be king!”

“Yes.” She agreed. “He does.”

Trystane pushed away a single golden lock that had fallen into her eyes and then looked away almost shyly. 

Her hair had always been beautiful and it still was, even if it framed a broken face now. It was ironic, really. Uncle Tyrion had lost his nose by a cut to the face, cousin Shireen had half her face ruined by disease, and now Myrcella was disfigured slightly too. But so long as Trys didn’t mind she was fine with it.

____________

A seamstress stood before her, dark eyes sizing her up. Next to her was Princess Arianne, looking truly radiant as always.

“Oh, look at you! Soon you’ll be prettier than I am!” Arianne exclaimed with a bright smile. 

Myrcella blushed at the compliment and smoothed the orange fabric she was holding to distract herself from having to look at either of the women. She highly doubted that she could ever be as pretty as Arianne, but then again her mother had once been called the most beautiful woman in all the seven kingdoms, and Myrcella looked just like her, but for the scar on her face.

“The red one.” The seamstress said dryly.

She was a short, stocky woman with short black hair and dark skin. Myrcella suspected her to be of Myrish descent to some degree or another. A young maid took the orange silk from her and handed her a deep red fabric.

“Yes, much better. Orange makes you look pale.” She straightened the fabric and pinned it together. “Too much Lannister. Give me yellow – no, the golden one, not that cheese colour – and some black.”

Myrcella had never looked particularly good in her house colours. But was it her fault that she looked like a Lannister? 

The seamstress sighed and shook her head. “Too similar to the… never mind. White, perhaps?”

Her slip did not go unnoticed. Maiden’s cloak, was the word she’d almost said. But Myrcella was twelve! Her mother had been almost twenty when she’d married Robert…

“Yes, white will do. Some gold as well, maybe pearls…”

Myrcella fled the scene as soon as she could. They were making her wedding gown. She wandered around aimlessly. She could go find Trys again, or the Sand Snakes, or even just outright confront someone about what they seemed to be doing. 

Before she could decide on any of those she found herself in the smithy. Back home in King’s Landing she had sometimes convinced her uncles to take her to see the street of steel and had watched the smiths and their apprentices pound away, beating the metal into beautiful shapes. But today the fires were out and the smith was gone. Likely he was taking a break inside, cooling off from the heat of the fire and the sun. 

Smiling, she entered the forge. There were swords and daggers all around, finished, broken, still being made. Light armour hung to the walls and a hammer was sitting on the stone table. Carefully, she picked it up. Her father had killed prince Rhaegar with a war hammer, but in Myrcella’s hands it just felt horribly heavy. 

Clumsily she swung it around a little, until she bumped into a small wooden box. She set the hammer down again and slid the wooden lid off. She gasped, the lid falling from her grasp. Her heart beat faster as she looked again, picking up the item. 

It was a crown. 


	27. Robb VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb speaks to Mors Umber about old times and to his wife about the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I start trying (and failing) to make the Long Night and the Others and magic and shit work. Yay.

He did not kneel before the heart tree at Last Hearth. It would not feel right, somehow. Instead he stood tall, tracing the bleeding eyes with his fingers, feeling the carvings of the children of the forest, older than the wall, older than Last Hearth, older than memory. 

There were so many strange things. A Stark king in the North with the look of a Tully, warging a direwolf again. Slowly he reached out for Grey Wind, feeling his vision fade, loosing side of the weirwood, and finding himself in the kennels with a dozen quivering dogs. He could smell their fear.

He wondered if his siblings could do it too. Jon had wolf dreams, he knew, but didn’t seem to do it so actively. Truly, Robb had avoided it too, in the beginning, denying the connection. But it had been this very connection to Grey Wind that had saved him. In the moments before what he believed would be his death, Robb had called out for the direwolf. And he had found him. Raynald Westerling had freed him and he had ran to the hall and there he’d seen himself – lying on the ground, spewing blood, having just killed Walder Frey and collapsed again – and he had met his own eyes and been back to his own body. And somehow it had given him the strength he needed, and he had stood again. 

Robb slipped out of Grey Wind again and was back in the Godswood.

“Your Grace?”

Disoriented for a moment, he couldn’t make out the source of the call, and turned around in mild panic, only to find Crowfood Umber eyeing him suspiciously. Sometimes, when he hadn’t been able to control himself, he’d warged into the mind of Grey Wind and his bannermen had seen, but they’d never addressed it, pretended not to see. 

“So the Smalljon tells it true. A bloody warg!”

Robb just nodded. “Old powers return, it would seem. Wargs and direwolves, and dragons to the East.”

“Aye.” He agreed. “Last Hearth is an old castle too. Born in the wake of the Long Night, some say. If you walk round these hills, you’ll find arrowheads of strange glass, and remnants of something we’ve all long forgotten.”

“The North remembers.”

“Does it? We say the Others are no better than grumpkins and snarks, but why was the wall built then, I ask ye?”

“The Last Hearth. The castle the furthest North, born in the wake of the Long Night. But there’s something cold up there, that drives the wildlings south. My brother says they’re back.” He mused.

“And what do you say?”

Yes, what did he say? Jon had pressed the issue again before he’d left, asked him to consider it, and to tell the Lords. He’d said that Robb was fighting the wrong war. 

“I say that it’s no coincidence, all of this.” He told the older man. “Last Hearth was once a base for the fight against the Long Night, one last fire burning, surrounded by battles that could only be fought with these strange glass arrowheads. I trust my brother.” 

“If the Others have returned, then let this be the last Hearth before the cold again, the base for the fight once more.” 

And with that they clasped hands before the eyes of the gods, and Robb could feel them watching, waiting, judging. The Others were back. The real war laid up North, and the Umbers would fight with him. 

____________

It was in the evening, nearing night, when the last sunrays were long gone, that the riders appeared from the North, at least a dozen, and three from the South, scouts he’d sent out. Those came first, two of his, and one very beat-up Bolton man, then his wife’s party only a little behind. 

“Open the gates.” He told the man and then descended from the walls again to greet the soldiers.

He waited at the gate and watched them all ride in, fifteen horses and fifteen riders, a dozen soldiers, a captive, a lady, and a queen. Margaery was wearing heavy furs, her hair braided back in a simple northern style, and somehow, she had never been more beautiful than this.

He turned to the first man again, a soldier and scout by the name of Willam. 

“Where’d you pick him up?”

Willam grinned. “He was riding up on the hills and tried t’ turn back when he saw them banners. Never made it far. Bolton’s paranoid, thinks we’re planning something. The other man got further but we shot ‘im down quickly. Your Grace.”

“Good. We might need to send a raven to the traitor that sits in my father’s halls, so that he won’t send more riders, though.” Robb turned to the man, who’d opened up the gates. “Bring him down into the cells.”

With a small bow, he left, and Robb turned to his wife, holding out a hand to help her off her horse, and then pulled her into a quick embrace, finding comfort in the warmth of her. They were married now and he could at least try to enjoy himself.

“It is good to see you again.” He murmured into her hair. 

“Yes,” she whispered, smiling. “It is.”

“Ah. The new queen in the North.” Hother rumbled from behind them.

“My lord.” Margaery curtsied ever so slightly.

He offered his arm and led her inside. The look she gave him was one of surprise but he made no move to explain himself . 

“What news from the wall?” He asked once they reached his chambers.

“So you're talking to me now?" 

He rolled his eyes and ignored her, repeating his question again. "What news from the wall?" 

"Alys Karstark has arrived and promised to support us again if he prevents her from having to marry her… uncle, I believe? Yes, uncle, I think.” She shrugged.

He frowned. “She’ll support us? Truly? After I beheaded her father?”

“Yes.” He kissed her deeply. “Your brother says he has a plan, but he didn’t tell me what… He’ll explain it when he comes here, I don’t doubt. Stannis will likely return soon, and then the armies will amass here, at Last Hearth, awaiting your command.” While she had talked, Margaery had begun pulling off her dress, still confused.

“Huh. Strange. I wonder if we’ll ever get to have peace again, truly. It’s almost sad that I’m not dead; we could have finally ended the war of five kings!” He joked, taking off his shirt and kissing her again, then pushing her down.

She laughed sweetly and let herself fall back onto the bed. “And what a world that’d be…”

When they were done, he lay in blissful silence, not quite letting sleep take him yet. He would be going off to war again, but this time without Lord Karstark, or the Blackfish, or Roose Bolton, or the Greatjon, or his mother. He wondered for how many battles Margaery would have to follow him from field to field. She'd been in Renly's war camp, but really how much war had Renly ever seen? She was strong, that he had to give her, but war wasn't easy, and it would likely break his little southern wife. 

“Where will you go first?” She mumbled, seeming half asleep already. 

“I don’t know. I would have said Karhold, but with Lady Alys on our side again it won’t take that great an effort. I think I’ll take advantage of my different armies and confuse him by attacking all over the map. But I want to take the Dreadfort and burn it, just like Winterfell was burned. Though I don’t know who burned it, Theon, or Ramsay. Wex says it was Ramsay, but Wex is Ironborn, and was Theon's squire besides, so I don’t know whether or not I can trust him. I mean, Olyvar was a Frey, but he was also my squire and I'm not sure he knew about the red wedding, so... I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“It is quite reassuring to hear you have a plan already. But I won’t be coming with you.”

“Why?” He asked, looking down at her in the darkness.

“This will take a while, months, probably, and Castle Black is our safest base.” When he still looked at her with what must have been utter confusion, she smiled slyly at him and added “I’m with child, Robb.” 

“With… child.” He repeated, a smile forming on his face. “That’s the best thing you could have said to me! Well, other than ‘Roose Bolton, Ramsay Bolton, and all of the Freys just choked on their pigeon pie’, but...”

“Maybe luck will strike and that happens too, who knows?”

“I know." he said with a soft sigh. "And luck's a bitch that can’t be trusted.”


	28. Jon IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon talks to Sigorn and then to Bowen Marsh. Mormont's raven is annoying again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a while, because I stopped writing for like four days cause I was too lazy to look up what Sigorn would call Jon. Yay.   
> I also totally fucked up the timeline of the Jon story, so...

“Cold. Die. Die.” 

Jon froze. He had most definitely not said either of those words to the raven lately.

“Snow. Snow.” It croaked. “Cold. Die.”

“Why are you like this?” he asked hoarsely. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Die. Die.”

“Yeah, thanks for that…” he muttered. 

As he picked up Longclaw to go out into the camps the raven fluttered its dark wings and screamed again.

“Old.” He screeched and landed on Jon’s shoulder, digging its claws into his skin. “Old, old.” 

“I’m not that old… Even you’re older than me!”

Resigned to his fate, he gave up on pushing him away. He had a task before him that day that made him want to piss his breeches: convince Sigorn of Thenn, who spoke little of the Common Tongue and to whose father’s death he’d actively contributed to, to marry Alys Karstark. 

And so, Jon Snow made his way out to the camps. Between Stannis’s men that were all half frozen to death, Robb’s Northern soldiers that were already preparing to march again, the Thenns were well-hidden, far on the outskirts of the wildling camps, that Jon did his best to avoid, as he was fairly certain they would kill him on sight, armed only with a sword, a wolf, and two of his brothers. 

Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn awaited him, clad in bronze, with a bronze sword and a small dagger at his hip, looking on disapprovingly as Jon came to a halt before him. 

He had had Leathers teach him the Old Tongue so that he could at least communicate well with Sigorn, but he wasn’t fluent in it. He had specifically rehearsed some useful phrases and varying responses the Thenn could give. 

“Magnar.” He began, uncertain how to address the other man. 

“Why are you here?” he asked in broken Common Tongue.

Jon hesitated, then began with his horrible attempts to speak Sigorn’s language. “You want to find a place for your people here. South of the Wall.”

“Yes. There are things coming. Dark things, cold things, older than we are.“ He drew the dagger from his hip. It was dragonglass. “Mance gave my father this. He found it when he looked for Joramun’s Horn, in a hundred graves. A relic from times long gone.”

“Gone.” Mormont’s raven repeated the strange word. “Gone. Gone.”

“There is a castle for you, called Karhold. It belongs to Alys Karstark. You could marry her and settle your people on the lands of house Karstark.”

“To protect my people from what’s coming, I would marry a hundred Southerners. I pity you, who must stay at the Wall.” He said something that Jon could not understand and smiled thinly. “… Old promises, dead promises, no memories left. I pity you crows, who do not remember. I will marry Alys Karstark and take my people to her castle.” 

“Good.”

_____________

The wedding was done. Gods, how many more weddings would Castle Black see these days? He thought of Ygritte again, whom he’d stolen by accident. And now she’d had a child. 

He would have to go to Last Hearth with Alys Karstark – or was it Thenn now? – and her new husband. In truth, he was going to tell Robb about Ygritte. 

“Lord Commander?” Bowen Marsh stood in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“Do you truly think it wise to travel to Last Hearth? A castle so very involved in the war of Stannis Baratheon and Robb Stark? I know he’s your brother, but…”

“I do not think it wise, but I will do it anyway. It will not be long.”

“The men will say…”

“I know what the men think and say, believe me. But I will go to Last Hearth and upon my return I will lead the ranging to Hardhome, as Cotter Pyke requested.” He paused, waiting for Bowen Marsh’s reaction. “I will not let thousands upon thousands of the free folk die.” 

The man looked at him with distaste, then nodded slightly and left again. 

“Die. Die. Die.” The raven told him again.

“Aye, die, you stupid bird. The way he looks at me one would think he wants t’ kill me one o’ these days…”


	29. Alayne I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne takes a walk with Harrold Hardyng and they run into the three Sunderlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally changed the tourney and it makes no sense but I needed the timeline to work.  
> Also, Alayne is a total bitch, but that's the point of het in this story.

Alayne was staring again, careless girl. When he looked at her with deep blue eyes she blushed and quickly turned away. She knew he was smirking now, happy to have the Lord Protector’s daughter – though natural – fawning over him. 

Alayne was stunningly beautiful, and she knew it. Dark glossy hair, clear blue eyes, high cheekbones, and fair skin. She was wearing a new gown, a grey one, that hugged her figure sharply in all the right places and she could see him looking with wide eyes. 

He was so easy, her Harry, Such a stupid, handsome fool. Up-jumped squire. She had found him charming when he’d danced with her. Asked for her favour, poor boy. Now, she could see him for what he was. He wasn’t cruel as Joffrey had been, but he had no wits about him and looked at her in a way that made her skin crawl and her tummy flatter, and he was already preparing to depart, though only briefly, to see Saffron and whatever whelp she’d spew out by the moon’s end. 

She had made a decision. There were four tourneys to be held, one grander than the other, and each would determine two of the winged knights. Ser Harrold would not receive her favour until the very last joust, if he hadn’t won the previous ones by then. The first one was to be held soon, very soon, barely a fortnight away, while the final one was a year away. 

Sweetrobin was such a frail young boy, and she hoped he would find strength in the knights. Strangely enough, Sansa did not wish him any harm. For her to be Lady of the Vale, as her aunt before her, Robert had to die and Harry live, but still… Gods, it was nonsense. Alayne Stone had no aunt, at least none who was a lady, and in a horrible way Alayne did not mind the prospect of the little lord’s death all that much. 

Harry made his way over to her from where he’d been standing in the training yard with the other knights. 

“Lady Alayne.” He flashed her a brilliant smile.

“My Lord.” She dipped into a graceful curtsy. 

“Walk with me, if you would.” He offered his arm. “And please, my lady, call me Harry.”

“Then I must insist you call me Alayne, Harry.” She said as she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, falling into a leisurely stroll that reminded her of King’s Landing.

But no, she had never seen King’s Landing. He led her outside into the sparce gardens at the Gates of the Moon. Spending time with Harry was often dull. Flattery seemed to work well enough, but the knowledge that she would likely spend the rest of her life with this man was quite disheartening. But charming him was easy, just as her father had said.

“I saw you fight in the yard today. You were very gallant. Have you considered the melee instead of the joust perhaps?”

After a moment, he laughed. “No. The melee won’t get me into the Brotherhood of the Winged Knight, will it?”

“No.” she agreed. “I truly hope you win. I know you will. It would be a shame for our time to end so soon after it began, don’t you think? I would not wish for you to return to Ironoaks before we can get to… uh, properly get to know each other.” She leaned towards him subtly, lowering her eyes coyly. 

“Yes, of- of course.” He grinned, showing off those pretty white teeth of his.

Alayne felt wicked. She had no intentions of… properly getting to know Harry, unless they were truly wed, which to be true Alayne did not believe would happen. Petyr be damned. She often remembered Margaery Tyrell, who’d had Joffrey wrapped around her finger with pretty words and easy smiles. And now Margaery was a queen. ‘And we would be sisters, you and I.’ And how right she had been.

They took a turn at a big, dead tree. She thought again to the dreams she’d had, night after night, of weirwood trees, and blood and bones, and cold winds that brought snow and death. 

Three men were standing near the tree, looking at a knife the youngest was holding. She coughed ever so slightly to get the three Sunderlands’ attention. Triston, Godric, and Steffon Sunderland, three of the seven sons of Lord Sunderland, who was also named Triston, and three men who were so unlikely to win a spot in the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights it would take a miracle. She did not doubt that Petyr was counting on it, placing them strategically to ensure certain knights would win, most of all her Harry. 

There was a round of ‘my lady’s and ‘my lord’s and some ‘ser’s, Alayne curtsied, and Harry looked as though he’d eaten something foul. 

Triston was at least five and twenty and had a homely face, Godric was tall but a tad bit round, and he too was no younger than twenty. Steffon was by far her favourite of the sistermen, with curly black hair and deep green eyes, and a smile that while pleasant never lost a mocking undertone, which was usually reserved for Harry, whom he did not seem to like particularly much. He was also not horribly old at six and ten, just like Sansa’s brother would be. And though he likely new neither how to fight nor how to joust, he seemed gallant and a truer knight than Ser Harrold could ever be.

Before she could strike up a conversation with the three Sunderland brothers, Harry pulled her away again. She gave them a smile that only Steffon noticed and then continued pretending to find what Harry had to say terribly interesting. 

“I wonder if they have webbed hands.” He sneered.

She chuckled lightly and stopped. 

“I would hope not.” She said, though the thought excited her in a way. She took his hand into both of her own. “I don’t think I would like a man with webs between their fingers…” Alayne murmured, running her fingers lightly over his. 

She kept her eyes on their joined hands, not daring to look up at him. If she did, he might try to kiss her. And if he did, she’d have to let him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters in Part 1.  
> Next up: Jeyne IV, in which things finally improve a little.


End file.
